Archive of Our Own

Collaboration had always been a difficult endeavor for The Doctor.

It was not for a lack of trying. Many could just not grasp the way his mind operated, and Dottore had long since stopped expecting anyone to understand. He lacked a sense of belonging, a type of peerage that would coax him into carrying about the lives of those beneath him, and it only served to drive him further from the same humanity he was trying to elevate.

There was only one man who he could reluctantly label an equal, and even then, it felt like a stretch. It almost felt pathetic to try and convince himself of, because he knew, in a sense, the desire to have an equal was born from a desperation that had long since plagued him from his days as a young child in Sumeru’s forests.

Dottore understood on a fundamental level that only monsters liked to associate with other monsters. And many were not eager to accept that role.

The streets of Snezhnaya’s capital were laden with a thick coating of snow. Snowflakes lazily drifted through the air, a constant in the Nation of Cryo. He and Pantalone were just returning from some business in the inner-city, although The Doctor almost wished he had sent a Segment instead to tag along with the Ninth. The air was frigid, the biting wind causing their coats to billow as they walked alongside each other. Dottore kept his head ducked to shield himself from the cold, the beaked end of his mask bearing the brunt of the winds.

Irritatingly, Pantalone seemed rather unaffected, that pleasant smile of his stuck on his face. Although he seemed to recognize his partner’s discomfort, and guided him through an alleyway shortcut.

“Your recent requisition for that new project of yours was…ambitious, even by your standards, Doctor,” Pantalone remarked. His voice was smooth, like aged wine poured over ice, but The Doctor could sense a bit of irritation behind the pleasantries.

“Progress is not a budget-friendly endeavor, Regrator,” Dottore replied. “If you want results, you cannot expect me to do it on a civil servant’s stipend. Surely the ‘hidden coffers’ I’ve heard rumors of can spare a few million more?”

Pantalone’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, although it never did. “The rumors are understated. But those particular assets are kept off the Northland Bank’s official ledgers for a reason. If The Jester knew the exact percentage of Snezhnayan trade-flow I’ve diverted into private vaults—”

“He’d have you executed for treason,” Dottore finished, letting out a contemplative hum. “Or he’d give you a promotion. It’s hard to tell with him these days.”

“He would find it difficult to execute the man who keeps this nation’s heart beating,” Pantalone said, stopping momentarily to adjust a cufflink hidden under his fur-lined coat. “Those vaults hold more than just Mora. And they remain hidden for a reason. I fund you, and I fund you well, Doctor, but you cannot just expect me to…”

A quiet, sharp clatter echoed from behind a row of rusted crates to their left. Pantalone didn’t stop speaking, but the cadence of his voice shifted by just a fraction. It became thinner, sharper, and his smile had dropped.

“…jeopardize my carefully crafted empire just so you can get your funding expedited more than it already is.”

Pantalone turned his head just enough to see a pair of wide, terrified eyes peering through the gap in the crates. A laborer, perhaps, or a low-level courier who had taken a shortcut and heard far too much about ‘hidden assets’ and ‘treason.’ Silence settled over the snow-dusted alley, only broken by the winds whistling through the cracks of stone. Dottore didn’t utter a word, but he recognized the scene before him for what it was.

A predator tracking prey.

Perhaps because this prey was particularly foolish, or because the Ninth Harbinger had a way of lulling lambs to their slaughter, the owner of those terrified eyes revealed themselves. A young man who seemed to be sweating profusely despite the surrounding cold. Dottore found the contrast rather intriguing.

“L-Lord Harbingers! I swear it, it was not my intention to eavesdrop! I—I was just moving some cargo, you see, and I didn’t expect for anyone to pass through here—”

What a bumbling fool. He could at least be more eloquent with his excuses, Dottore could only think.

“It was not your intention. Yes, I understand,” Pantalone interjected. Dottore found himself a bit perplexed by the response, but the laborer latched onto that hint of mercy all too quickly.

“Ah! Ye-Yes, yes! I knew you would be understanding, my Lord. I won’t utter a word. I’ll pretend I never even heard anything.”

“You’ll pretend? Not even a single word?”

“Not one! It will be like I wasn’t even here.”

“That’s not quite good enough, though, is it?” Pantalone carefully reached into his coat.

“M-My Lord?”

The Doctor felt he barely had more than a moment to process the exchange before a gunshot rang loud in his ears, the crack of it echoing briefly off the stone walls of the alley. In a matter of seconds, Pantalone had pulled out an elegant revolver engraved with gold filigree. It’s a gentleman’s weapon, designed for concealment, not war, but the trigger was pulled with the confidence of a man who has killed many times before.

It was a shot aimed straight for the heart. Blood splattered from the wound, droplets of crimson flying through the air in a dance with the delicate snowflakes, before the body hit the ground with a dull thud. The red that seeped out was jarring against the pure white of the snow, the laborer’s face frozen with an expression crafted by Pantalone himself. Regrator had offered the lamb a sliver of hope, but mercy was never his intention. In fact, it may be more accurate to say his only intention was baiting mercy just to see the hope be ripped from his victim’s eyes—and the light in them along with it.

Dottore’s eyes remained on the now limp body, though it didn’t inspire a feeling in him. He did not feel pleasure nor sadness to witness murder. He did not feel much at all. Contrary to beliefs he never chose to correct, he did not take lives for enjoyment.

He was, however, not prepared for what he would feel when he looked back up at Pantalone.

The banker was still poised in the some pose he had pulled the trigger in, his arm extended with certainty. His expression was completely devoid of his usual crocodile smile, rather, the expression he wore now was cold and callous. His eyes were open, their gold depths revealing a simmering type of pleasure upon knowing no one but himself controlled who knew what about him. Despite the lack of a smile, Pantalone’s demeanor exuded satisfaction.

The Doctor felt his heart tighten traitorously in his chest, as if it were trying to squeeze out his own blood so that the man might look at him in that way, too. It tightened even further when he noticed the flecks of blood that had reached Pantalone, splattered lightly across his gloves, his sleeves, even his face. Without a word, Pantalone lowered the gun. He reached into his coat again, this time to retrieve a silk handkerchief, and carefully cleaned any blood on the weapon. Dottore felt like a fool, frozen in place as he watched, but in that moment he could only think of one thing:

Red looked good on Pantalone.

He hadn’t realized neither of them had said anything for a good minute or two. But as Pantalone pocketed his freshly cleaned revolver and began to step away, The Doctor found himself stepping forward.

“Ah…wait a moment.”

Pantalone turned his head towards him, and Dottore reached out, swiping his thumb over the droplets of blood that had ended up on the banker’s cheek. The crimson smeared across his pale flesh, and The Doctor felt his stomach tense before he collected the rest of it, wiping the skin clean.

Dottore suddenly understood the dead man’s predicament, to sweat when it was so cold. He felt strangely heated himself, as if exhaling meant steam would escape past his lips. Those golden eyes were watching him, scrutinizing him. The Doctor was thankful he wore a mask.

Then, Pantalone’s eyes were closing once more, that familiar smile sliding back into place. He did not thank the Second, or even acknowledge the gesture. Did not check to make sure the laborer was dead, although it was likely he would be even happier to know he was slowly bleeding out. Just turned away and began walking the way they had originally intended to go. Dottore did not follow immediately, finding himself rooted in place as he watched Pantalone walk away. His hand subconsciously lifted towards his own chest, squeezing over his own heart, and he finally allowed himself to exhale, surprised when it left him shakily.

In all the years he had known and worked closely with the Ninth Harbinger, he had never seen the man kill. Not once. He knew that many deaths were caused by the choices and actions of Regrator, for the kind of wealth he possessed could not be achieved without such consequences, but it had always seemed so…secondhand. The types of deaths one didn’t have to acknowledge because the blood never stained their hands directly.

But to witness Pantalone as his most primitive self, surrendering to the rot and spite that flowed through his veins, pumped through a hateful heart…to see eyes which almost always remained closed, shining like coins of Mora, watch his victim without a shred of remorse…

Pantalone was a monster, just like him.

Perhaps even more than him.

The thought persisted, clambering tirelessly in The Doctor’s head for weeks to come.

Did he see Pantalone as equal, or equivalent? It was hard to say.

The thoughts first became louder during a monthly Harbinger meeting. Dottore took his seat beside Pantalone, as he always did. The seating arrangements were originally based on rank, but overtime it became clearer to everyone present that the many personalities gathered were very incompatible with one another. Pantalone seemed to be one of the few who would willingly sit next to The Doctor.

The meeting went on like any other. Pierro would arrive, pass along decrees or messages from Her Majesty, and then hand out approval or scorn accordingly. Then, in order of rank, each Harbinger would have the opportunity to report their ‘value.’ A chance to not only provide updates on their current tasks, but to air out any requests or grievances. Dottore hardly paid attention to what his colleagues had to complain about. Oftentimes their missions had very little to do with him, and it was only when the Ninth spoke that he offered a bit of his attention, though even he had limits when it came to that man’s monologuing.

Yet at this particular meeting he found himself more distracted than usual. His eyes kept lingering on Pantalone’s hands—those same hands which had pulled that trigger without mercy—or his face, recalling the way blood had smeared across his cheek under his thumb, smooth and rich, just like the killer himself. He hadn’t even realized it was his turn to speak until he felt an elbow jabbing him in his ribs.

“Doctor? Any day now, please.” Pantalone spoke.

Dottore jolted in his seat, his attention refocusing on the room. His gaze landed on Pierro, who was watching him expectantly, and The Doctor let out a soft huff before rising to his feet to give his report.

Once he had concluded, he sat back down, listening to the sound of a chair scraping as the next speaker stood. The Captain’s low tone filled the room as he gave his own report, and The Doctor found himself tuning it all out once more, but before he could truly lose himself in his own thoughts, he felt the man next to him nudge him again.

“You seem distracted. More than usual,” Pantalone murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

“The Segments are arguing,” Dottore claimed, which wasn’t technically a lie. They had been rather noisy lately. “It makes it difficult to focus.”

The banker next to him hummed sympathetically. “What are they arguing about?”

“What do they not argue about?”

“Fair enough. Just be more aware of your turn next time.”

Their brief conversation concluded right as Capitano sat back down, and the room’s attention was once again on Pierro. The Doctor let out a breath, his gaze drifting back to Pantalone’s hands without realizing it.

The next time his thoughts regarding Pantalone became particularly loud was when he had a meeting with the man in his office one day. It wasn’t unusual for them to meet like this. They had meetings bi-weekly to go over The Doctor’s expenses and the current progress of his projects being funded by Regrator, and then afterwards often indulged in a game of chess or talked over some tea.

Today, they chose the latter.

Pantalone’s office was always too opulent for Dottore’s tastes, but he found himself lingering regardless. The steam rising from the tea service was the only thing moving in the room besides Pantalone’s hands. Dottore watched those hands more often than he cared to admit now. They were encased in silk gloves, pristine and dark…and utterly bloodless.

It was a lie. The Doctor knew better now. He knew how easily those fingers could pull a trigger; he knew the steady, unhurried rhythm of the heart that beat beneath the Ninth’s coat when he witnessed death of his own doing.

“You’re being unusually quiet today, Doctor,” Pantalone remarked, his voice cutting through the silence. He didn’t look up from the tea he was pouring. “Is the funding request I approved this morning not enough to keep you satisfied?”

“The funding is adequate,” Dottore replied, his voice a low hum. He leaned back in the plush leather chair, his mask tilted at an angle that suggested he was scrutinizing the man across from him. “I find myself preoccupied with…memories.”

Pantalone paused, the teapot hovering just an inch over the fine bone china. He looked up, his glasses catching the amber glow of the hearth. “Memories? Of what?”

“Of you,” Dottore said plainly.

The banker in question finished pouring the tea and set the pot down with a soft, controlled clink. He pushed a cup toward Dottore.

“I wasn’t aware I’ve done anything remarkable enough to snag your ever-changing interests,” Pantalone said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I hope the memories are pleasant. I’d hate to think you’ve been resenting me this entire time.”

“On the contrary,” Dottore leaned forward, his gloved fingers tracing the rim of his teacup. “Though I used to find your smiling irritating, Pantalone. A necessary mask for a man who lives in the dirt of commerce, but nonetheless an annoying one…”

He paused, his mind flashing back to the alleyway. To the splash of red on the snow, the utter lack of hesitation.

“…one that I can’t help but be curious as to why you maintain it, even in my presence.”

Monsters associate with other monsters.

Pantalone took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. He didn’t deny anything, but he did raise a brow, letting out a soft exhale that sounded more amused than anything.

“In my line of work, Doctor, one must be a many-faceted thing,” Pantalone replied. “I am a banker, a diplomat, a Harbinger. But gold is heavy. Sometimes, it requires a certain…weight of hand…to keep it from slipping through one’s fingers.”

Dottore felt a strange, jarring spike of adrenaline. Similar to the one he felt in that alleyway. He looked at Pantalone and didn’t see a banker. Couldn’t see a banker. He saw a man who had walked the same path as him.

“You look better when you aren’t trying so hard to be polite,” Dottore noted, his voice dropping an octave.

“Is that so?” Pantalone tilted his head. “And how do I look when I’m not being polite?”

Dottore thought of the red. The violent, vivid bloom of it against Pantalone’s pale skin. The way it had made him look alive and real in a way that those fake smiles never did. It was raw, it was the ugly truth, and it was…

“Honest,” Dottore replied. “You look honest.”

Pantalone chuckled, a dry, melodic sound. “I don’t make a habit of lying to you, Doctor, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Perhaps. But bluffing in business comes naturally, does it not?”

The Ninth merely hummed in reply but didn’t say anything. It was clear this was a conversation he didn’t plan on delving deeper into, nor necessarily wanted to entertain, even surface-level. The Doctor could understand that he was being intrusive, but a greedy, selfish part of him wanted another taste of the man he had seen weeks ago.

If Dottore gave him five—no, ten men who had wronged Regrator in some way, and presented him with all the weapons he dreamt of, what would he do? Would his façade crumble bit by bit with each kill, or would it shatter instantly, only to slip right back into place the moment the deed was done? Would he prefer proximity, or distance? Would his eyes be wide and feral, or narrow and predatory? Would his heart race, or would it remain unsettlingly calm? Would he strip himself of his gloves, his glasses, his rings—present the barest, rawest parts of himself—for The Doctor’s eyes only?

Il Dottore was a greedy, selfish man. Anything that fascinated him, he latched onto, and no matter how much that interest tried to shake him off he would sink his fangs and claws into it and not let go.

“Ah…this reminds me. I have a gift for you.”

Dottore reached into the bag he had brought with him—usually reserved for transporting the necessary files and documents for these meetings—and pulled out a box. He placed it on the desk between them and slid it forward, his fingers lingering on it for a few seconds before he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. Pantalone observed the box. Not with caution, The Doctor could tell. It was more like the banker was trying to gauge what the gift could mean.

“That’s rather unlike you. Since when have you been the type to give me gifts?”

Dottore scoffed. “I would have preferred a ‘thank you’, but if you truly don’t want it, I’m not forcing you to keep it.”

Pantalone just hummed. “No need to get defensive, dear Doctor. I was just making an observation, that’s all.”

Carefully, the banker opened his gift. To call it a ‘gift’ was rather generous, at least when viewing it from the outside. It wasn’t wrapped in the slightest, just packaged impersonally in a plain box. Upon opening it, Pantalone’s lips parted slightly as he viewed the item inside, before reaching in and pulling out a revolver. Less elegant than his own, but clearly brand new.

“You got me a gun?”

“Look at it.”

Pantalone cocked a brow but didn’t argue. He observed the revolver, turning it over and testing the weight of it in his hand. He ran a finger along the barrel, before letting out a small ‘oh’.

“It’s silenced,” he remarked.

“Precisely. The one you carry around is rather noisy, but revolvers are notoriously difficult to equip with silencers. However, this model is designed to seal the cylinder gap the others have, making it far quieter to use.”

“I see.”

Dottore watched as Pantalone observed the revolver for a little longer, as if trying to imagine how it would feel like to use. A gift it may be, The Doctor knew it was not out of his own generosity. It was selfish. An unspoken nudge to the other man, to indulge more, but discreetly. He did not want others to witness the raw and rotten hatred he got to see from the Ninth Harbinger. Not unless they were soon to die.

“…thank you, Dottore. This is very thoughtful.”

The Doctor’s heart stuttered at Pantalone’s words, but his face betrayed nothing other than the slight twitch of his lips. He just hummed noncommittally, as if it were a minor inconvenience and not a thought-out gift. Pantalone’s smile looked a touch softer at the edges, but Dottore felt like he was just imagining (or hoping for) absurd things.

Pantalone placed the gun and the box aside, his focus returning to his tea as he took another sip.

“So, will you be gracing us with your presence for the upcoming banquet, Doctor?”

Dottore blinked.

“I could’ve sworn we just had one. What is the point in all these frivolous events?”

“I take it you’ll be sending a Segment, then.”

“Hm. That would be the most sensible, yes.”

But something was gnawing at him. Pantalone usually didn’t inquire about these kinds of events with him. The man knew him well enough by now that he had no interest in them. So, either the banker was just asking out of courtesy (which was useless by now), or he was expecting something.

Before he could ask any further questions, or give an answer, Pantalone was speaking again.

“Ah, is it that late already? You’ll have to excuse me, Doctor. I have a meeting in five, so we’ll have to wrap this up here.”

“…oh. That’s fine. I have some specimens I need to check on, anyway,” Dottore replied dismissively, rising from his seat. He collected his bag and turned toward the door, but just before he left, he added, “And do let me know how you like my gift, Regrator.”

Without even sticking around to hear the banker’s response, The Doctor left.

The Doctor rarely attended banquets personally.

There was always too much noise for meaningful conversation, too many bodies arranged for spectacle rather than utility, too many calories expended on the illusion of excess…He found these celebrations to be a waste of time, something that a Segment could easily handle in his place. But when Pantalone had mentioned the banquet with that expectant tone…well, how could The Doctor not let curiosity consume him?

Dottore’s gaze drifted, unhurried, dissecting the room. The banquet hall used specifically for these types of events was packed, and with ease he could spot some of his colleagues based on where certain groups flocked. He walked with a hand behind his back, watching as attendees made room for him as he passed.

He knows it is not out of simple respect. It was almost always out of fear.

It didn’t bother him, although many things did. The way the fabric of his formal attire rubbed against his skin, the constant chatter that reminded him of the weeks leading up to exams in the Akademiya, or the fact his time could have more value elsewhere.

He didn’t see any signs of Pantalone, though that wasn’t surprising. The man was probably off networking, expanding his ever-growing web of connections. He was a businessman through and through, with a smile and a sharp tongue that easily swayed others. Even Dottore found himself falling victim to his charms occasionally, as false as they were.

It gave him a twisted sense of relief, or perhaps satisfaction, to know how fake that charming exterior was. To have witnessed the ugly truth, the rotten hatred hidden behind those eyelids. To see hints of what the man could look like, truly in his element, bathed in red and sparing none he deemed worthy a glance. For very few knew that this ‘mere banker’ had such a filthy heart and even filthier hands, for his eyes were never open and his hands were never ungloved.

There was no point in staying among the crowds for long. He couldn’t find Pantalone, and The Doctor certainly wasn’t there to mingle with his other co-workers, so he found himself going where he always went during events like this: the balcony.

Although Dottore hated the cold, the cool night air was a welcome reprieve from the stuffy heat of a packed banquet hall. He let out a breath, watching the way it billowed out in a cloud of white. Now that he was alone, and the sounds of the celebration were more muffled, he felt rather ridiculous to be attending an event like this at all. It had been a while since he had shown up to a banquet by his own will, and he was beginning to recall why he never attended these things.

His head tilted up, and he gazed at the stars. Twinkling and bright, they were rather beautiful, but they were fake and fickle. They reminded him of Pantalone, in a way. A charming veneer that hid an uglier truth. However, The Doctor had always preferred that ugly truth…both when it came to the sky, and when it came to the Ninth.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the click of dress shoes approaching behind him, the familiar scent of bergamot reaching his nose.

“Good evening, Doctor. Is this the original, or one of your clones?”

Dottore turned away from the railing to see Pantalone approaching, and he felt himself nearly collapse from the sheer force with which his heart leapt. There he was, in a finely tailored burgundy suit, the crimson hints of it doing awful things to The Doctor’s mind. There was the barest bit of red eyeshadow lining his eyes, his hair tied back, the silver of his glasses and rings accentuating the tones of his outfit perfectly. Dottore felt his mouth go dry, and forced himself to swallow.

Red looked so fucking good on Pantalone.

Despite The Doctor’s inner turmoil, his voice was remarkably steady when he next spoke.

“Why don’t you take a guess?”

“Hmm. Let me see…” Pantalone approached with a pleasant smile on his face, a half-empty flute of champagne in his hand. He leaned in just a tad, scrutinizing the man before him, before letting out a low chuckle. “Ah. What a surprise. You’re the real deal after all.”

Dottore let out a huff, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering against his ribcage.

“How can you tell?”

“Well, if I told you, then that wouldn’t make it as impressive, now, would it?”

“…I suppose not.”

The Doctor could feel in the frigid air that many things were being left unsaid, but perhaps that was for the best.

Dottore stared at the way the water rippled as he scrubbed down his body, his touch never softening, even as he went over fresh scars. The sound of water splashing echoed loudly in Pantalone’s too large bathroom, but the volume paled in comparison to the loudness of his own thoughts.

Perhaps it was becoming a bit of a problem, but their relationship was gradually turning into something far more than just ‘professional’ or ‘friendly’. The Doctor didn’t want to think too deeply on it. They had good conversation, they had good sex…why complicate things with labels? This was stress relief at the end of the day. They could consider this their own little after party. Banquets were stressful, after all, and this was just a chance to unwind with like-minded company.

Dottore pulled himself out of the tub, letting the sudsy water drain as he reached to grab a towel. He dragged it roughly over his hair and skin, not really caring about drying off completely, because he would only end right back up in the bath anyway. He caught a glimpse of himself in the nearby mirror—his scars and all—and pried his eyes away, lest he catch sight of his own face, too.

…Pantalone was waiting for him.

He tossed the towel aside, grabbing one of the robes that hung by the door and loosely tying it on. When he opened the door and peered out into the adjoining bedroom, he was content to watch for a little while.

There was a melodic Snezhnayan tune playing from the phonograph in the corner of the Ninth’s bedroom. Pantalone hummed as he loosened his tie, slowly removing his clothes from the banquet as he sat in front of his vanity. One by one he became more undone, slipping off his rings and untying his hair, unbuttoning his vest and dress shirt. Taking a sip of wine he had poured himself, he glanced up as Dottore emerged from the bathroom, freshly bathed. Pantalone smiled, standing, before approaching The Doctor with a small pill between his fingers.

“Open,” he instructed, placing the pill on Dottore’s tongue before patting his cheek. “Swallow.”

The Doctor did as he was told, swallowing the pill with practiced ease, his gaze trained on Pantalone—languid, relaxed. The ends of his hair were still damp from his bath, and he smelled faintly of the banker’s soap. He was more focused on the way the wine had tinged Pantalone’s lips a faint red than anything else.

“The same as usual?” Dottore asked.

He didn’t mind having sex while high. Often, it actually just made the experience more enjoyable, and Pantalone seemed to prefer it as well. He usually just accepted whatever drugs the banker gave him without thinking about it. A bad habit, maybe, but at this stage in their relationship he really wasn’t worried about being poisoned.

Dottore knew this particular drug well by now. It dulled his mind but heightened his senses, and made him just a little bit more suggestable. It toed the line between aphrodisiac and sedative, a neat little thing from Fontaine, and The Doctor preferred it this way. He didn’t have to think about the implications of what they were doing too closely if he wasn’t sober for the act itself.

Pantalone's eyes softened slightly, watching the other man swallow again. Setting his wine to the side, he took hold of Dottore’s chin, tilting his head up.

“The same as usual, yes.” Pantalone nodded with a little hum. He didn’t even have to ask. They did this enough by now that the routine was muscle memory. He let his hands roam to Dottore, fingers tracing over his shoulders and collarbones, before gently guiding him to the bed. He gave him a little push, and The Doctor sank down onto the silken sheets.

Pantalone followed him down with practiced grace, straddling Dottore’s hips while unbuttoning his own shirt the rest of the way. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across his pale skin as he leaned down, close enough that his loose curls brushed against Dottore’s cheeks.

The phonograph's melody shifted to something slower and more deliberate. A waltz for two.

“Tell me something interesting,” he murmured, tracing a fingertip along the edge of Dottore’s jaw. “Before that drug properly takes hold. I always enjoy your thoughts when you're still coherent enough to articulate them.”

Dottore’s pupils had already begun to dilate from the drug, but his gaze remained sharp and focused on the man above him. He chuckled softly, his hands coming to rest on the other man’s thighs.

“I am still mostly coherent,” he replied in a slightly husky tone. “It should take a little longer for things to get…" He paused, searching for the right word. “Blurry, but even then, you should know better than to think any drug you give me would have a full effect.”

The Doctor’s mind certainly felt a bit fuzzy already, but he could still think relatively clearly. While his body was relaxed, and a pleasant heat had begun to course through him, he was still coherent. The drug would fully settle in a few minutes, but for now he was still mostly himself, and he used that time wisely. His gaze swept over Pantalone, taking every inch of him in. He was always beautiful, but even more so in the candlelight. Dottore had never been the most poetic, but he had to admit that the sight was quite captivating.

“I like you best in red,” he admitted lowly.

Pantalone let out a soft, melodic laugh. The kind that wasn’t entirely mocking but certainly edged with amusement. His fingers trailed down Dottore's throat, pausing over his pulse point as he considered the admission.

“I suppose that is interesting,” he murmured, a smirk curling his lips. “Why red?”

“It suits you.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Dottore fell silent for a moment. His tongue felt too heavy in his mouth and his mind felt too floaty. He could get into specifics, yes. Could probably spend hours detailing how a mere color had such a chokehold on him when it came to the banker. But the words weren’t coming to him, and he just responded with a sigh.

Pantalone tutted softly at The Doctor’s lack of response, but didn’t push. His own touch remained purposeful as he slid his hands over Dottore’s chest, fingertips tracing old scars with familiar ease. Dottore found himself arching into it, eyes trained on the way the banker’s hands moved. His pupils swallowed the red of his irises, the hyperactivity of his mind slowing down into something more tolerable.

“Still coherent enough to be irritated with me?” Pantalone teased, fingers lightly brushing over a peaked nipple. “Or has that clever mind of yours finally gone quiet?”

Dottore hummed softly in response, eyes briefly closing as he focused on the sensations the drug was causing: the warmth spreading through his limbs, the slight tingle in his fingertips, and the pleasant clouding in his head. It all felt like the color red, his mind latching onto what he had been fantasizing about for the last several weeks now that his other thoughts had quieted. His eyes reopened, pupils blown wide, making him look almost feral. He ran his hands lightly up Pantalone's thighs, then slipped his thumbs beneath the hem of his open shirt, rubbing slow circles over the man’s hipbones.

“I’m not irritated…” Dottore frowned slightly, struggling momentarily for the right words. “I wouldn’t be here if I was.” No, every time he ended up in Pantalone’s bed, it was always by choice. This time was no exception. “I do sometimes wish I remembered more of these nights, but maybe it’s better that I don’t.”

“Better for you, perhaps,” Pantalone murmured.

Pantalone pushed Dottore’s robe aside through the opening, exposing more of his bare chest. His eyes darted over the scars—some old, some more recent—ugly and stark against pale skin. He traced a finger lightly over a long, jagged one on Dottore’s ribs.

“Is this new? Tell me about this one.”

The fog in Dottore’s mind made it difficult to concentrate, and he struggled to follow Pantalone’s question. His gaze was still fixed on the man above him, but it was increasingly distant, his eyes starting to drift out of focus. His hands still roamed the banker’s skin, rubbing up and down his sides, leeching off his warmth. Eventually he caught up, and he glanced down at his chest, following the path of Pantalone’s finger. When he finally processed the question, he hummed softly, trying to remember the source of the scar.

“…Ah. That.” A sluggish smile tugged at his lips. “Got…impatient waiting for anesthetic to take effect. It’s still healing.”

“Is that so?” Pantalone lightly dragged his nail over the scar, causing Dottore to shudder. “You ought to be more careful, Doctor.”

Finally, Pantalone pulled back, shrugging off his own shirt. He took the ties of Dottore’s robe and pulled it loose, letting the fabric slip away from the man’s body. His gaze rolled over him from top to bottom—his face, his chest, his half-hard cock—before sliding off the bed and stepping away. When he returned, he held his previously set aside wine glass in his hand, crawling back onto the bed to kneel beside The Doctor.

“Stay very still,” he warned, voice firm. “If you get a single drop on my sheets, I won’t let you come once tonight.”

Before Dottore could ask, Pantalone was already tipping his glass to the side, holding it above The Doctor and letting the wine slowly pour out. The crimson liquid dripped over his chest and stomach, pooling in the dips of his body and spreading over his skin. He let out a faint sound, a shiver running down his spine as he gazed down at his own body, the wine almost resembling blood oozing from a wound. But then he remembered Pantalone’s warning, and forced himself to remain still.

Pantalone set the glass aside with a soft clink, before bracing his hands on either side of Dottore’s body and leaning down. He started from the navel, dragging his tongue through the pools of red, all the way up to the chest, and lapping up any drops that strayed too far from the center. The Doctor let out a breathy noise, his fingers tightening against the sheets, his now fully erect cock giving a delighted twitch at the sensation and sight.

As he watched Pantalone lick the wine off of his skin, he could feel his head spinning, and not just from the drug weighing heavy in his veins. The sight alone was nearly enough to make him come right then and there. It was as if he were watching the man drink his blood and feast off his wounds, like he had been cut open to be devoured, his body heating up more and more until he could feel his pulse hammering in his ears and his skin burning.

And when Pantalone pulled back, he felt as if he might burst, his legs trembling faintly.

“I must say, red suits you as well, Dottore,” the banker spoke, a pleased lilt to his voice. “And you managed not to spill a single drop. Good job.”

The Doctor barely listened. He was too focused on the way Pantalone was licking wine from his lips, or the hungry look in his eyes, gazing at him like prey. Prey. No one ever looked at him like that. No one except this insane, sadistic, monstrous banker.

He had never been more aroused in his life.

Dottore let out a startled moan when Pantalone abruptly flicked the tip of his cock, before wrapping a hand around the base and giving a cruel squeeze.

“Focus, Doctor. When I speak, I expect you to listen.”

“I was listening…”

“Oh, and now you’re lying? Maybe I really shouldn’t let you come.”

Pantalone released his grip, leaning to the side to reach into the drawer of the adjacent nightstand. He retrieved a small vial of oil, uncapping it and allowing the liquid to drip out and coat his fingers. He tossed the vial aside and used his dry hand to nudge one of Dottore’s legs to the side.

“Legs spread. If you try to close them, I won’t give you the privilege of being stretched at all.”

The Doctor just let out a shaky huff but obeyed, spreading his legs wider to make room for the other man. Pantalone settled in between his thighs, reaching a hand down. He prodded one slick finger at his hole, testing the give before slipping it in, and then a second quickly after that. Reflexively, Dottore tightened up at the intrusion, but the drug thrumming in his veins quickly allowed him to relax into the sensation.

The banker’s fingers worked him open with practiced ease. This wasn’t their first time in bed together, after all, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It felt like he was deliberately ignoring his prostate in favor of loosening him up as efficiently as possible, and while the feeling was frustrating it still left him with pleasant tingles, causing soft breaths and gasps to escape The Doctor’s lips. His cock was aching at this point, neglected for far too long, precum beading at the tip and dripping onto his stomach. But he knew if he tried to touch himself there would be consequences.

Dottore only felt startled out of the haze he was drifting in when he heard the clink of the wine glass being set down again. He hadn’t even realized Pantalone had gone for a sip, and blinked at the man when he felt a hand pinch around his jaw and fingers press into his cheeks. The banker leaned forward, his fingers continuing their ministrations as he slotted their lips together. Immediately, Dottore felt wine spill over his tongue, and he had no other choice but to try and swallow.

Pantalone chose that moment to finally crook his fingers, pressing against that sensitive spot that had The Doctor moaning against his lips, his hips jerking. He choked around the wine in his throat, sputtering lightly, tears pricking at his eyes. When their lips finally separated and Pantalone released his jaw, Dottore coughed weakly, a sliver of wine dribbling out down his chin. The banker hummed, pleased, and slipped a third finger inside.

“Your body is quite greedy. You have three of my fingers in you already, and you already seem like you’re begging for more,” Pantalone punctuated his words with a quick thrust of said fingers. “Do you want more, Dottore?”

“Yes…”

“Hm? What was that? Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want more…I want you to fuck me, Pantalone, just…”

Dottore’s head tipped back, his thoughts even harder to hold onto now that the banker was focusing on his prostate. His toes curled against the sheets; his chest started to heave with the growing heat in his stomach. His hips rocked down against the fingers moving inside him, a silent plea for more, harder, faster—and then stilled when he felt a hand smack his flank.

“Did I say you could move your hips? Should I just let you fuck yourself on my fingers for the rest of the night like the whore you apparently are?”

The Doctor groaned, shaking his head. “I want you…”

Dottore knew the other man was not unaffected. He could see the telltale signs of arousal, the hints of flush on his face (tinges of red that were so, so pretty on him). He could see the way his cock was straining against the confines of his pants, how tightly coiled his muscles were. The restraint.

And he felt no shame in admitting he wanted to be the object of Pantalone’s desire, to be the only thing he saw and thought about in the moment. If he were sober, he’d perhaps feel shame. He’d feel pathetic, even, for stooping so low as to beg for another man to fuck him. But the drug stripped away any barriers he usually held firm, forced out even his most repressed feelings, and laid them all bare for those golden eyes to bask in.

There was an uncharacteristic silence from the man above him, who usually had so much to say and oftentimes mocked him for his begging, but this time there was nothing. The Doctor shuddered as he felt fingers slip out of him, leaving him achingly empty, and then there was a pat to his hip.

“Turn over. On your hands and knees,” Pantalone instructed. The sound of his belt and zipper being undone was loud in the otherwise quiet room. The phonograph had long fallen silent.

Dottore did as he was told, sluggishly shifting onto his stomach. He hiked his hips up, barely registering how he presented himself like an animal in heat, face half-pressed into the plush pillows. They smelled like the other man, and he inhaled deeply, before being jostled by hands tightly gripping his hips and the feeling of Pantalone’s cock resting on his ass.

He didn’t get much of a warning before the banker’s blunt cockhead was pressing against his hole, sinking in with one smooth thrust. The Doctor felt a startling shock of pleasure race up his spine, shuddering violently as Pantalone sheathed himself inside. His abdomen quivered, a wavering moan escaping him against the pillows, the pleasure so heady it bordered on pain.

Just the way he liked it.

He moaned again when Pantalone gave a single, harsh thrust forward, and that moan cut off into a muffled yelp when he felt a hand come down against his ass. The lingering sting did nothing to quell the burning heat in his gut.

“You really are a whore. Who gave you permission to come?”

The Doctor blinked sluggishly at the harsh words, his body still trembling. He hadn’t even realized he had orgasmed, but peering down the evidence was clear. His cock hung heavy between his legs, cum dripping from the tip and smeared across the silk sheets. That drug really did do all sorts of things to his mind and body…or maybe it was just Pantalone that did this to him.

It felt freeing, to be the prey for once.

Another slap. “Zandik. Answer me.”

Dottore shuddered violently at the use of his name, the sound of it so wrong to his ears. He just let out a garbled sound, some mumbled apology, but he felt too out of it to really offer anything substantial. Not that it mattered much, because he knew Pantalone was enjoying himself. One glance over his shoulder revealed golden eyes feasting on his every twitch and shiver with unabashed, sadistic delight, reveling in bringing the mighty Second to such a pitiful state. The smile he wore when they were like this was always much darker, but it was real.

Without waiting for a more proper reply, Pantalone started moving his hips. His thrusts were slow at first, but quickly gained speed, the sound of skin against skin filling the room alongside Dottore’s breathy moans and whines. The bed creaked faintly as the banker practically fucked him into the mattress, wrenching out sounds The Doctor would never admit to making the next day, using the body of the Second Harbinger like he was nothing more than a cheap whore. A hand against the back of his neck kept him properly pinned down, nearly crushing his throat.

Every drag of Pantalone’s cock against his prostate, every time he bottomed out or he felt the man’s nails dig into his hips, it had Dottore reeling. His mind was grasping for coherence, but it was being fucked out of him bit by bit, until all that was left was a body made to be devoured by the only man who could. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, his lungs burning as he struggled to suck in air between gasps and keens. Every time Pantalone would scratch him, slap him, manhandle him…it made him feel like he was sinking deeper and deeper into something he could never come back from.

The Doctor wouldn’t mind dying like this. It was a thought that startled him, even in his incoherent state.

Pantalone leaned over him, his tongue tracing the line of Dottore’s spine, before his lips brushed against his craned neck. His hips maintained their relentless rhythm, angled to force out every last bit of pleasure, as he parted his lips and sunk his teeth into the neck so deliciously offered to him. The Doctor’s fingers twitched, reaching out and clawing at the headboard, losing himself further and further in both the pain and the pleasure. He felt a hand grip his hair and yank, forcing his head back and away from the pillows, his moans growing louder with nothing to muffle them.

“You’re a…nhh…slut for everything, it seems.” Pantalone’s voice was breathless, tinged with a bit of strain. “Whether I praise you or hit you, you tighten up regardless…”

“Haaaah—Ha-rder—” Dottore gasped out, earning him another strike to his ass.

“Harder? Don’t be greedy…it’s pathetic,” the banker’s words were cruel and venomous, but The Doctor didn’t hear any actual malice in them. In fact, they almost sounded fond.

Dottore let out a pitiful whine when he felt Pantalone abruptly pull out, his hips shifting back as if to chase the retreating fullness. He didn’t resist as the other man roughly pushed him onto his back, and The Doctor didn’t have the sense of shame to cover his face when Pantalone’s eyes landed on him.

He knew what his own face probably looked like. He could feel the tears cooling on his heated cheeks, the way drool clung to his lips and chin, the feeling of sweat and how strands of his hair stuck messily to his face. Yet instead of disgust, Pantalone looked down at him with satisfaction, pleased with the mess of his own making. A trigger he pulled without hesitation, again and again and again.

“This look really suits you, Dottore,” Pantalone spoke, his voice pleased and velvety. He reached forward, cupping The Doctor’s flushed face in his hands, thumbs brushing over pale lashes that clung together with tears. “That mask of yours is so hideous. This, by far, is a better look for you.”

The praise made Dottore shiver, the weight of it settling over him, thick and syrupy sweet. Pantalone wasted little time, grasping the man’s hips and tilting them up, guiding his cock back inside The Doctor’s waiting hole with a sigh. Dottore accepted every inch of him, any ounce of resistance long since being whittled away. His cock had already filled out again since his first orgasm, flushed and eager against his stomach.

Pantalone started another relentless pace. It’s slower than before, but designed to hit deeper and harder. His hands slid up, giving The Doctor’s slender waist a squeeze, before leaning down to lavish Dottore’s neck with bites and nips. Dottore just let himself feel all of it, every part of him encouraging more. More pain, more pleasure, more Pantalone. He wound his arms around the banker’s neck and hooked his legs around his waist, drawing every thrust deeper until he’s certain there’s a place carved out inside him, reserved for Regrator alone.

Dottore could feel another orgasm building in his core. His abdominal muscles tense with each thrust, his cock twitching with the impending climax, but he held out—waiting for Pantalone’s permission. He grasped at the banker’s back, nails dragging down his skin, mauling his flesh until he could smell a metallic tang in the air and hear Pantalone’s groans deepen. He squeezed his eyes shut, clinging tighter, and when he felt a hand wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with each thrust, he knew Pantalone was close.

The Doctor’s legs began to shake, the heat in his stomach coiling tighter and tighter before it snapped, and he bit down on the junction between Pantalone’s neck and shoulder. His cock pulsed, ropes of white cum dirtying Pantalone’s hand, painting his own chest and stomach. It isn’t long before he hears a stifled curse and Pantalone’s hips are stuttering against his, spilling deep inside him. The feeling is familiar and molten hot, a feeling that has Dottore’s legs tightening around the banker’s waist, reluctant to lose it.

Pantalone stroked him through the aftershocks until he whined and his hips writhed with oversensitivity. It’s cruel, but he does it for longer than necessary, even as The Doctor let out a choked sound of pain. Only then does he relent, releasing Dottore’s spent cock before pulling out. Dottore’s legs were still shaking, his chest heaving as his slurred mind struggled to come down from the height of his climax, the drug in his veins suspending him in a delirious high. His legs finally slipped away from Pantalone’s waist, his body going limp and melting against the mattress. There were hints of red under his nails, a sight that only served to make his head spin further.

It felt like there was static in his mind and cotton in his ears, and his vision was blurred from tears and fatigue. His eyes slipped shut, his every breath heavy and shaky, his nerves still thrumming with the ferocity of his release. When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but not enough for the drug to wear off. Pantalone was no longer in bed with him, but he wasn’t far.

The last thing Dottore saw before drifting off completely was Pantalone standing by the open window, a cigarette in his hand and a cold look on his face. But he wasn’t focused on that, no. Instead, his eyes traced the long, red lines now marring the banker’s bank, courtesy of his nails. Or the bites he had managed to plant along the man's shoulders and neck. Marks that wouldn't fade for a while.

A weak smile tugged at his lips.

Dottore had sunk his fangs and claws into Pantalone, and he didn’t plan on letting go.