Chapter Text
When the door to his office opens, Pantalone hardly need glance upwards to know who enters. For who else is so conceited to think themselves above knocking? The harsh glint of a white lab coat contrasting the warm lamplight of his office only confirms his surmise.
“Good evening, Doctor.” An affable tone he uses, as he does with any client. Properly lifting his head, he blinks twice to ensure he isn’t seeing double. Thankfully not, merely a Segment of the Doctor’s standing idly by the door behind the original.
He straightens his back, pointer pushing the bridge of his glasses upwards. Now with a proper look, Pantalone spots subtle differences one unfamiliar with the Doctor would hardly notice.
“Doctors.” He corrects himself with an amused grin tugging his lips upwards. His eyebrows momentarily knit together in brief deliberation.
“Omega?” A guess, for the most part.
“Delta Build.” The Segment corrects.
“You could have fooled me.”
“A mere few years off. Commendable guess.” Muses the Prime Doctor.
Pantalone interlocks his fingers, rings glinting under the office’s lighting. He passively glances at the clock, ending the idle chatter.
“What brings you here?”
“I have matters to discuss with you.”
A vague recollection of a scheduled meeting with him comes to mind. Surely, to discuss the outline of his funding for the next month. He casts a glance down at the dates he had been scribbling on his reports.
“You are a day early, Doctor.”
Dottore sneers — sly, always a smirk, never a smile. — tilting his head coyly. “I am no such thing. Is it a crime now, to pay a visit to my favorite banker?”
“This brand of sarcasm does not suit you. What do you want?”
In just a short flicker, the Doctor’s mock saccharine drops into an irritated crooked glower. “There is a grave mistake in the funding report I received.”
Pantalone’s elbows rest on the polished snakewood underneath him, his chin set comfortably atop the fabric of his gloves. “Is that so? Do enlighten me.” Mock innocence, a condescending grin graces his lips. It’s his usual expression; pacific, a sinister smile that could easily be mistaken for a jovial one. Eyes lightly shut, discreetly peaking through delicate lashes, a subtlety obscured by his glasses. If eyes were the window to the soul, Pantalone kept his veiled in silk and locked in a safe.
Dottore’s eyes narrow underneath his mask, expression only evident by the irate scowl tugging at his lips. He’s well aware of the deplorable callousness the banker adores to inflict upon him.
“It seems to me,” He approaches the table, leaning over it’s edge, effectively cornering his prey. “there is an imposed budget on my research, that was not present before now. And a rather restricting one at that.” His voice is low, but every word is spit at him like venom. Thankfully, Pantalone knows just how much he can poke the bear until it mauls him.
“Ah, indeed there is.” He acknowledges his concerns with maddening forbearance, and the Doctor’s eye twitches at his sheer audacity.
“You see, Doctor, a budget is imposed when someone does not know how to responsibly handle the organization’s fund allocation. Research without results is merely a school project.”
“You buffoon,” The indignation is palpable. “I cannot hand you results every month, these are long term projects that require meticulous practice and patience.”
“Perhaps if you bothered to file your progress reports, you could’ve convinced me to be more charitable. Wherein lies the point of having multiple of you if they are all incompetent?” Pantalone sighs dryly, examining the rings on his fingers to feign disinterest.
Action rivals insult, it makes the Doctor instinctively recoil in offense, before he lowers his head to match the bankers unwavering gaze. “Do you think me a child? Are you my mother, giving me pocket money? I do not recall discussing anything about such a budget.”
“Then enlighten me Doctor. Where in your lab does my investment lie? The returns are not nearly adequate enough for me to freely allot so much of my funds to you.”
“Your funds? Is that so? I was unaware every mora in Teyvat personally belonged to you.”
“But I allocate them into your lab toys, do I not? You should know better than to squander Fatui funds on personal projects.” Pantalone tilts his body to the side to meet the gaze of the younger clone. “Tell me, young Doctor, where does my mora vanish off to?” His sweet tone drips with sheer, unfiltered mockery.
“You do not answer to him.” Dottore snaps his fingers sharply at the Segment. The younger looks notably annoyed at his command, akin to one bestowed upon a disobedient dog, but stays quiet nonetheless.
Perhaps if he can corner the Segment alone later, he could draw some answers out of a, hopefully, more naive and less egotistical Doctor. Pantalone muses to himself as Dottore squabbles with the wall.
“Cease your daydreaming, Pantalone. Do you not hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Doctor. I’m simply ignoring you.” Pantalone leans back into the plush velvet cushion of his chair, steepling his fingers together. He practices the patience of a saint as he waits for the Doctor to finish his tantrum.
Dottore snarls at him, bearing his teeth as though he were a feral dog, his carnal temper always hiding underneath that mature and reserved facade of his. He’s left his short temper behind, he’s claimed; only evident by his builds nowadays, but most of the harbingers knew it to be an almost comical lie.
Even so, the Doctors fury is best not to be tempered with, lest one end up like one of his… more unfortunate experiments.
Though, his irritation is ever so entertaining.
“This tantrum is unbecoming of you, Doctor. It is better suited to your temperamental younger Segments.” He motions to the Segment that stands by the door, and Pantalone can tell he glares at him by the way his mask shifts.
“If you don’t want to accept my “pocket money” as you so eloquently put it, quit acting like a child.”
The Doctor halts in place, evidently insulted by such a degrading comparison.
“Is there anything else you need to discuss? If you wish to waste my time, you may do so at our scheduled meeting tomorrow.”
Perhaps the bear mauls earlier than usual when in a poor mood, as the banker finds himself shoved against the wall within the second. His grimace remains concealed as his neutral gaze is met with the Doctor’s mask mere inches away.
“Do be mindful of the paintings. They’re quite a rare collection, you see.”
“Be mindful of your rotten mouth you mutt.”
Pantalone almost reacts, but he shan’t allow their personal dynamic seep into such contretemps. Most certainly a lie.
“Very frightening.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“This?” He motions towards the Doctor’s hand pressed against his shoulder. “Or provoking you?”
“Both, clearly.” Dottore leans into him, he tilts his head and cannot suppress the puckish grin on his face. “This is why you provoke me, is it not?” He emphasizes by squeezing his shoulder.
“Must everything revolve around you?”
The quip hardly has the time to leave him before his lips are captured; though embarrassingly, he immediately yields to him. His back presses against the wall and the fur trim of his coat frames his complexion, he briefly sinks into sensation.
“Yes.” The Doctor sneers as he briefly pulls back to answer the previous question.
“I hope you don’t think me so shallow as to believe that would convince me.”
“Perhaps arguing with you simply turns me on.”
Pantalone’s lips part to quip, but pause upon processing the statement.
“You are vile.”
The Doctor mutters an acknowledgement of consensus, leaving it unfinished as he returns his attention to his lips. As he expects, Pantalone succumbs with ardent compliance, despite his poise.
“This is,” He mumbles against his lips. “purely for personal gratification. My decision on your funding is final.”
“Yes, yes.” Dottore waves his hand dismissively, though his tone carries discontent. His fingers ghost over his torso as they slowly creep up with a most predatory movement.
“Though, there is still time to reconsider.”
Pantalone rolls his eyes.
Thin rubber grazes his neck as the Doctor’s fingers curl around it. Ever the doctor, he knows precisely where to lay hand.
A deft finger traces a languid path along his jugular. “I’d carve perfection into your throat to sever every little vein of yours.” He mutters against the skin of his ear.
Strangely endearing is his macabre flattery. Well-nigh personal, the Doctor’s affection is most vile and twisted, and ever so alluring.
“Your revolting compliments are as charming as ever.”
“I see you have an attitude today.” He sighs, nails lightly burrowing along the veins of Pantalone’s neck. His undisturbed gaze only provokes the Doctor further.
“Unscheduled meetings with ungrateful investments do not put me in high spirits.”
The Doctor’s exasperation reaches its peak, he digs his hand into the Regrator’s silken black locks. He skips his roots, instead seizing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head down, a most vicious smirk he dons at Pantalone’s sharp cry.
“So I’ve been demoted to a mere investment, have I now?”
The tips of gloved fingers run along atop his head softly in a moment of respite. Fingers languidly comb through his hair, they peak out through oil slicked strands. Though not out of mercy, merely mockery.
Pantalone raises his head against the weight of the Doctor’s hand, earning him a sharp pull — though thankfully, by the roots — and a harsh spit to the face. He wipes his lips with the back of his glove, choosing to discard them after the fact.
“Filthy. You never learn.”
Pantalone raises a hand to swab the saliva off of his cheek, though grimaces at the sight of it on his glasses.
“These glasses are very expensive—“
“Then you would be wise to behave yourself, lest I ruin any more of your precious trinkets.” He threatens, and that silences him. Such gluttonous materialism. Such a pampered thing.
The Doctor’s fingers grasp the bridge of his glasses, an atypical benevolence in how he removes them. The chains draping either side of the frames jangle against each other as he holds them out to his Segment, who sets them aside.
“Rid those garments. I don’t want to hear your insatiable whining when your lavish little fabrics get a speck of dirt on them.” He carps, though muttering the pretense of a considerate gesture.
His hands graze the fur trim of his coat’s collar, before halting as it is viciously tugged from his shoulders. Craning his head backwards, he is met with the vile sneer of the Doctor’s Segment as he disrobes him posthaste.
His view is immediately redirected towards the Prime by way of his poor, aching scalp.
“Your eyes are to stay on me.”
Always desperate for attention he is, even under the guise of dominance. The Doctor would snap one’s neck if it meant turning their head towards him in the process.
Be that as it may, Pantalone still whines under his breath, as predicted.
Pantalone’s ears wail in agony as he hears the coat’s fabric against the ground. For gods’ sake, it’s premium cashmere imported from Liyue. A comment he keeps to himself to avoid further abuse to his scalp. He side eyes the Segment, who visibly sneers at him knowing he can’t reprimand him. The Doctor so generously grants him mercy in spite of his disobedience.
As his clone peels off his second layer of clothing, the Doctor grips his wrists almost tenderly, deft, marred hands removing each of his rings. Noctilucous Jade from the caverns of Liyue; the jewels were dear to Pantalone, and even the superior Second Harbinger did not want to be on the receiving end of the fit the Regrator would throw if those rings were damaged in any way.
For a fleeting moment his expression softens in appreciation, before rudely interrupted by the younger Doctor pulling — or rather, yanking —his shirt over his head.
“Have your builds any sense of decorum?”
He hears the Segment behind him guffaw.
“Have I?” The Doctor tilts his head at him with an innocuous grin.
Touché.
Stripped to his undergarments, he jolts at the fleeting palm of his clit through his briefs. The Segment titters as he uncoils his damp fingers to admire the evident arousal.
“So wet already?” The clone taunts, and both the Doctors’ subdued laughter meld together.
Cornered at both sides, Pantalone can only stare at the empty space beside the Doctor’s head as his body betrays his composure.
A string of his fluid clings to his undergarments as they’re pulled down his legs, instinctively, he steps out of them.
One look at his bare anatomy, and anyone with half a mind could tell he was waited on hand and foot.
Immediately his lips are captured by an almost urgent fervor. With such abysmal hunger he succumbs, he devours. His prey, he stalks and mauls his lover as a predator would rip the flesh of its meal. With each kiss he swallows ambrosia.
Fingers ghost his torso, the Doctor lays hand on him, seizing his waist with avidity almost unbecoming of him. His biggest vice had always been the human body, especially that of which bends to his will with such reverence.
How such a flimsy product of nature captivated him so was a mystery to him. An abundance of bodies he’s seen, cadavers stripped bare of clothing and flesh. And yet their allure all paled in comparison to the spectacle that was the Ninth.
Oh, in a heartbeat he’d use his body as a vessel for a God. The torment of such perfect framework laid bare before him, too precious to slaughter and reassemble into true perfection.
“How I’d cut into that sternum of yours and dissect you. I’m sure your organs are as pristine and pampered as you.” A coarse finger — a mock scalpel, drags from his trachea down to the concave of his chest. His remarks are unnerving, downright vile, and yet his twisted endearment is intoxicating. Pantalone swills his words as though they were the finest vintage.
He can hardly help himself, his hands instinctively tear at the Doctors coat, longing to strip him of those ungodly bothersome garbs. Dottore recoils and flicks his wandering hands to the side.
“Did I tell you to disrobe me?”
Pantalone pouts towards the dismissal. “It was merely instinct.” He mutters.
“Do be mindful of your tone.”
“The coat, at the very least.” Pantalone motions towards the Doctor’s ever present lab coat. “Gods only know what abhorrent substances you’ve tainted that thing with.”
“I will let that comment slide.” Sneers the Doctor, fulfilling his request. Wrong about said substances he isn’t, but what was it if not in his job description?
Unlike Pantalone’s garments, the lab coat is gracefully hung upon the chair adjacent to his desk. His unamused glare is ever so delightful.
The Doctor does not allow it to linger, as he recaptures his lips to silence his grievances. Ingurgitating every breath of his, if only to satiate rapacious hunger. Their breaths hardly have the time to mingle as they hardly part in between.
A myriad of sensation; Pantalone revels at the sharp grasp of his waist and the filthy wet gnawing of his lips. His hands find the sides of the Doctor’s face to pull towards him, no amount of proximity enough. Fingers graze azure hair and thumb lurks over that most irritating mask.
“Take that damned thing off.”
The Doctor’s grin hardly falters at the demand; if anything, the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.
“Do you think yourself deserving of that?”
The silence is palpable, and Pantalone’s pitiful sulk speaks volumes as he considers the statement.
“Answer the question.” Comes the succinct demand, the empty gaze of his mask somehow staring daggers as eyes would. There is a semblance of a murmur between their intermingling breaths, to which the Doctor tilts his ear towards.
“My, has the dog lost his bark? I didn’t quite catch that.”
Pantalone sucks in a breath and ensures his exhale is well heard, unlike his previous mumble. For the Ninth Harbinger to be compared to a mere dog, was far beyond contempt.
And yet, the mutt obeys.
“No.”
“Ah, I see. Very good.” The praise further mocks the comparison. The Doctor’s warmth pulls away, and the mask remains still upon the bridge of his nose.
The Doctor’s teeth, ever razor sharp, graze against his neck and trace along his jugular vein. Pantalone’s throat visibly bobs as he swallows his unease at the motion, to which Dottore cackles against his neck. Sadist.
He practices a most feral absence of intemperance as his teeth submerge underneath flesh, perforations blooming red along the crook of his neck. Ashen skin tenses as his prey succumbs and whimpers in agony underneath him. He mauls him like an animal, tearing flesh and skin alike.
The Doctor chuckles at the bankers pained glare, the flat of his tongue lapping up the blood that drips down his collarbone.
“What’s wrong, my dear? Are you going to charge me for damages?”
“Bastard.” Pantalone mutters, only to be met with the Doctor’s thumb forcing its way in between his lips.
“Such crude profanities do not suit a man of your status.” His nails dig into the Ninth’s cheek as he caresses the flat of his tongue, finger running over his molars. Pantalone bites down — a taste of his own medicine — but the Doctor does not relent, ignoring the discomfort as he issues a simple reply by shoving his thumb farther in, a most wicked grin he adorns as he feels Pantalone gag against his finger.
“Such a big mouth for a pathetic little thing.”
He withdraws his hand, wiping the residue on the mutt’s chin; comparable to a personal rag. Pantalone feigns disgust, but his longing eyes betray his crumbling facade. As a dog would lean towards the whiff of a treat, his form slants towards the Doctor.
However, he turns his back on him. Rather, he perches atop the seat of the office’s chair. He sinks into the plush backrest, elbow propped on the chair’s arm as his head tilts and leans on his knuckles.
“What are you doing?” Pantalone quirks an eyebrow. Without the Doctor’s warmth before him, he feels ridiculously bare. His arms cross and hands rest on opposite shoulders, retaining what little dignity is left in him.
The Doctor’s crooked smile is one he recognizes and knows to imply a twisted delight stirring within that peculiar mind of his.
“Fixing the incompetence of my builds, as I believe you put it.”
The implication only comes to mind when a pair of cold hands slide unto his shoulders, to which he turns his gaze to the Segment. Frigid fingers grasp his chin and force it towards the Original.
“You are to only look at me.” Reminds the Doctor, retaining his comfortable posture. His fingers drum a rhythm against his knee in expectation.
Easier said than done when there was hardly a difference between the two. Though his reservations are subdued as the Segments frigid hands run along his waist.
“Not good enough for you, am I? How very entitled.” His head leans into the crook of Pantalone’s neck, from the corner of his eye he spots pale blue waves that graze his cheek.
Patience has never been a quality the Doctor possessed. Such is evident by the Segment, whose hand already drags down his abdomen and spreads his folds, effectively coating his fingers with translucence.
Though embarrassment is not a sentiment that plagues him often, he squirms at the Primes scrutiny. A most profound debauchery molded into a carefully curated performance.
Fingers deftly swipe at his arousal, smearing his fluids against his clit. He hadn’t realized how he yearned for stimulation until a strangled groan gets caught in his throat. He wrestles it into a subdued breath.
A knee finds his leg and nudges it aside, effectively prying his thighs apart. The draft adorns his skin with goosebumps.
He wills himself to stare ahead, to look into the empty mask. Despite its obstruction, he still feels the Doctor’s prying eyes looking into the most vulnerable depths of him. Devouring every part of him that trembles with need for his touch and affection.
A finger presses against his hole, gently prodding before it pushes in. Pantalone curses himself for the whimper that escapes him. The sounds are ungodly, so abhorrently wet, evidence of his arousal runs down his thighs, translucent streaks catch light.
Pantalone ceases to stifle his noises, or rather, he cannot. Whether it is due to the Prime’s audience or the Delta’s beckoning knuckles pressed against him, he utterly loses himself to dissipation.
“Ah— Another.” He bids. The reply is a breathy chuckle at his neck.
“Do not mistake me for your subordinate because I am not the Prime.”
Aforementioned Prime dons a content sneer.
Any air of confidence he had previously falters. He expects him to beg to a Segment? His unwavering stare at the Doctor speaks volumes of his irritation.
The Segment’s finger retracts, pointer and middle ghosting over his cunt just enough to glaze their tips with translucence. They part, in turn spreading his folds with teasing strokes to further persuade him.
A pathetic whine. Arousal corrodes his stubbornness as he parts his lips and the word just barely breaks sound.
“…Please.”
“Pardon?” He feels the Segment tilt his head.
The second attempt exceeds the silence of the first. However, the breaking of skin breaks silence in turn as the Segment’s teeth tear into him. He lacks the little self control the Prime may have practiced beforehand.
“Oh please—- please, please, please—“ Follows the begging. How elementary, he begs for salvation with sudden reverence after so little persuasion.
Adequately rewarded are his pleas, two fingers bore into him and knuckles meet his skin. He leans his head into the Segment’s hair as the perforations on his shoulder are sucked and nipped at, morsel of flesh abused and aching.
Pantalone grits his teeth and hisses, a string of pained mumbles amidst the clouded relish. It quickly fades into adrenaline.
The Segment’s fingers curl into him, so gracefully he melts against it. Instinctively his back arches to press his pelvis downwards.
He breaks eye contact with the Prime to close his eyes. The Doctor considers reprimanding him, but ultimately practices mercy as he rather enjoys the display.
It hardly takes long for his build to inch a third finger close. Always with his invariable impatience, though it should be expected by now.
Pantalone’s hand stumbles backwards, desperate to grasp onto something. That of which being the Segment’s coat, the fabric slips through his fingers with clumsy movements.
“You can handle it.”
Evidently he can, as a third finger nestles beside the other two.
“It is almost disappointing how easy this is.” Murmurs the Segment against his shoulder. “Pitiful thing.”
His remark is met with a heavy breath, whether it’s of chagrin or gratification is inconclusive. Of course, it hardly matters when his mind is so very preoccupied.
The Segment’s grasp on him is covetous, it earns a scowl from the Prime. An almost childish display of bitter envy towards himself.
Pantalone’s legs shake as he struggles to steady himself, only able to lean back and claw his fingers into the Segment. The Doctor can’t help but be captivated at his struggle, the way he writhes against the clone, grinding his hips against the knuckles of synthetic fingers plunged deep into him. Though admittedly, he’s annoyed those hands aren’t clinging to him.
The Segment is hardly deserving of such a devoted display of desperation, he’s had quite enough.
“Come. Lean forward.” The Doctor motions to him. Though almost deaf to words, Pantalone manages to comply. He stumbles forward and Dottore guides his hands to his knees, allowing himself to be a perch for the time being. The additional support is welcome as he leans his weight against him, so starved for his touch that he takes any chance to lay hands on the Doctor. His fingers desperately claw at him as he pushes back on the Segments fingers, thoroughly fucking himself onto them via the more convenient position.
The Doctor thumbs the underside of his mask, not without a brief moment of hesitation. He lays bare his complexion, reminding himself and the banker that he is in fact, human.
Not at the forefront of his mind however, he’s more inclined to have a clear view of the scene in front of him without the inconvenience of a mask. His eyes remain on Pantalone as hands blindly find the table to cast the mask aside.
Through stuttering eyelashes, Pantalone meets a crimson gaze. Although blurred due to the absence of his glasses, he can make out azure hair framing a pale complexion akin to the sky enveloping a cloud. Marred skin. Blown out pupils drowning in red irises. His breath halts in his throat as the Doctor’s eyes mull over his face.
Ravenous. Gaze reducing him to a mere test subject, calculating where to make the first incision. Ready to cut him open and pry out intestine and bone as he helplessly writhes and wails against him. He truly would have pulled out a scalpel had they been in his lab — he’s been spared for the time being.
The Doctor’s hand reaches forward to the banker’s face, running his fingers through his hair as he brushes sweat-slick strands from his forehead to get a clear view. His hand drags further down, pale skin contrasting the saturated heat of Pantalone’s face. A thumb finds his lips, wet with breathless desire, drooling like a dog staring longingly at a treat. The Doctor’s thumb swipes the saliva from the bottom lip, before pushing in between them.
“Suck.”
The order is futile as Pantalone immediately does so before he even finishes issuing the command. He groans against his finger, slick with spit, his tongue running over it and imagining the Doctor’s cock in its stead.
The thumb is replaced by middle and ring finger, enveloped then parted by his tongue as it swipes and sucks at the web of his fingers, the tips of them graze the back of his throat.
As the Doctor swallows the sight of the Regrator slobbering all over his mere fingers, his Segment’s fingers curl inside of him, grazing a most sensitive spot. The banker cries and jerks forward, gagging on the Doctor’s fingers before hastily pulling away, a string of saliva breaking away from his fingers and dripping down Pantalone’s chin. In no mind to care, he sputters short breaths and incoherent babbles as he grips onto the Doctor’s knees as if they were his very life support.
“G—Gods… Oh gods—“ He whines. Despite his resentment, he still calls out to the Divine. Dottore sneers. One day the only God he will cry out to is the one he creates for him.
The Segment deftly pulls his fingers away. Slick with his wetness, he slides up his folds and pinches and kneads at his clit. Pantalone’s back arches as he only focuses on the tightening of his abdomen, his eyes so tightly shut, surely it hurt. The sight both bewitches and infuriates the good Doctor as his attention is diverted away from him.
He staggers, head lowering as his breath becomes unsteady. There it is, muses the Doctor.
“Enough.”
The Segment halts all movement, retracting his hand and leaving Pantalone to drip onto the floor. Filthy. Sublime.
“N—No— No, no—“ He could practically cry, his voice cracking as he whips his head up to look at the Doctor. Sadistic. A vile grin and manic eyes. Nothing but mock pity dripping from his gaze.
Oh, how his eyes glaze over with frustrated tears. The epitome of beauty: pure, unfiltered agony.
“Patience is a virtue, my dear.”
“T—To hell with you.” The insult falls flat.
Despite the hollow threat, the Doctor grabs him by his hair and forces him to his knees. Minimal effort, really, his knees buckle effortlessly.
As he unbinds his fingers from his locks, Pantalone lies limp against his leg. Hair sprawled on his thigh, glazed eyes and parted lips; exactly where he belongs.
“If you are to be so gluttonous, direct it elsewhere.”
He needn’t tell him twice.
Pantalone raises his hands, so very inelegantly fumbling with the zipper of his garments. Uncoordinated, a desperate starved animal.
He kneels forward as one would pray to the Divine. May as well be, with the way he bows his head to take in the Doctor’s cock.
Acquiescent devotion. Worship.
Hues of red adorn the banker’s knees, surely to turn purple in the coming days. A ripe peach, endearingly soft, repulsively sweet. Succulent moisture drenching his cock as a bitten peach would dribble down one’s chin.
His clumsy grip tightens on the Doctor’s thighs as he adjusts his position. His knees can only shake in desperation as he presses his cunt against the Doctor’s shoe, any semblance of stimulation he could grasp onto.
The Doctor glances down upon feeling the weight on his foot and Pantalone’s rhythm growing unsteady. He tilts his head, observing him for a moment, admittedly distracted by the captivating allure of sheer desperation. Though only for a few seconds, before he thrusts his foot forward, earning a delightful cry from Pantalone.
“Such a desperate whore.” He utters with a small tut of disapproval. “Always so greedy. Pecuniary matters and otherwise.”
He curls his fingers into his roots, pushing his head down. His foot digs into his clit until it’s borderline unbearable, the banker whining against his dick as nails claw at the Doctor’s pants.
His leg pulls back, grip tightening around his hair. He plunges his hand into tar and asphalt coats his skin in black, the dark locks spill through his fingers as such.
“Will you focus, or do I need to fuck your filthy mouth myself?” He grants him a brisk thrust as a warning, before pulling his head off just for him to pant and slobber all over him. Gods, how can such obscene depravity be so beautiful?
Pantalone seems to weigh the two options, before his head moves mindlessly in inclination. So inebriated by selfish desires, he hardly seems to know what he’s nodding at.
“Your words, mutt. I don’t understand your incessant whining.”
“I— I’ll focus…” He manages to push through the hoarseness of his voice and muster words.
“Very good. Satisfactory performance will earn you a treat. I do know how much you love your fair exchange.” Dottore taunts and tousles his hair.
His fingers unclench now tangled locks, but remain intertwined between the strands. Pantalone lets the drool on his bottom lip drip upon the Doctor’s tip, before slotting his length back in his mouth. The fingers that gently stroke his scalp serve to ground his focus as he swallows him whole.
The way his throat contracts as he gags against his cock ever so slightly earns him a sharp breath from the Doctor. Oh, a cloying melody to his ears. The gentle caress of his fingers turn into a yearning grasp for hedonism. It only fuels the Regrator as he bends to the Doctor’s every whim and desire, desperate for the sounds of his approval.
He laps at his shaft, the perfect picture of a ravenous dog’s mouth clasping a bone. A stray mutt starved for the bare minimum that he’d mindlessly lie limp if only to gratify his master’s most selfish needs.
How undeserving he is to bear witness to such an obscene display of submission. But he need not deserve, only demand.
“Stop.”
The command falls upon deaf ears — no, not deaf. Disobedient. The lips lapping at his shaft, though swollen in ruins, quirk upwards ever so slightly. The sheer gall of the fool.
“Enough!”
A hand from behind, synthetic in nature, tears his head away and forces his chin heavenwards. His face his struck and adorned with blossoming hues of red, almost an indent of a palm in his cheek. The cry of anguish that accompanies is a song that will play stuck in his head for days.
The Doctor is ever so enamored by the color. Oh, he simply must see it again. His selfish desires, always the priority. Pantalone’s attempt to instinctively withdraw is futile, as the Segment’s cold grasp restrains him in place to take the hit.
One would have sufficed, but such is the cruelty that is the Doctor’s malevolence.
“Why must,” the Doctor’s fingers smear the mixture of arousal and saliva across his aching cheek. “you make this so difficult?”
He dismissively waves his hand in nonchalance, to which the Segment forces Pantalone on his feet. He is shoved upon his desk, bent 90 degrees at the hip.
“Since you clearly have no interest in fucking me,” The Doctor swirls the chair to face him, their heads now leveled to force eye contact. “our dear Segment will do, yes?”
His stern glower almost breaks to cackle at Pantalone’s exceptionally devastated pout.
“You—“
“Ah ah. You were clearly so eager for me to finish in your mouth rather than inside you.”
The bastard manages a smug grin. One he is soon to regret. “You’d have come so quickly from only that?”
He, of course, expects the painful grasp that follows. Nails dig into either side of his cheeks, their sharp ends only rivaled by Dottore’s own teeth. Indenting into him, moldable clay yet to be sculpted into obedience.
“Hear me, mutt. A dog does not speak. A dog barks. A dog whines. And a dog begs. I do not care which you opt for, but you do not use your words unless it is to beg.”
Pantalone doesn’t think he could muster another sentence even if he tried.
He is released by his cheeks and grasped at the hips, the skin of his rear so pliable in the Segments hands as he grasps him. He balances on his forearms, briefly grimacing at the papers underneath him. His concern for soiled paperwork crumbles when two fingers swipe over his folds, slick with arousal.
Pantalone sighs out a strained breath as the Segment pushes into him, a well of relief rising in him as he is finally filled. It’s hardly a punishment.
His head lowers parallel to the desk, muscles coil and tense as he holds himself up. Immediately, he is startled by the hand that forces his chin upwards; he meets the Doctor’s gaze.
“Your memory is truly atrocious. You should know to look at me by now.” His arms cross, returning his posture slanted into the backrest.
How his spine flares, his poor cervical vertebrae practically shear as he obeys. He is thrust forward as the Segment’s pelvis meets his hips, and so graciously he is brought to heel.
If this is punishment, perhaps disobedience is a worthy investment.
It hardly takes long for his abdomen to coil and twist. He struggles to keep eye contact with the Doctor, but he watches him so very keenly, he’d hate to disappoint.
Breath unsteady, his fingers find a most unfortunate grip on the papers underneath him. Thankfully the crumpling sounds of torn documents are drowned out by the cacophony of sex.
Pantalone can’t help the instinctive shut of his eyes when his body seizes and a galvanic sting clutches at his midriff.
Rather than relief of orgasm, the sensation halts and fades alongside a slowed pace. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with the Doctor’s smile, a sadistic glint underneath a coy gaze.
The daunting realization looms over him as he watches Dottore lean back comfortably with intertwined fingers. He intends to string him along for as long as he pleases.
Perpetually vicious he always will be.
Gods know how many excruciating minutes pass, twenty or thirty surely. A gaze frustrated and detached strains to focus at the empty space over the Doctor’s shoulder, he can’t stand to look at that mocking scrutiny.
The Doctor looks rather pleased with himself, ever so entertained as if watching a dog chase its own tail and consistently failing to grasp it with its worn teeth.
In reality, it’s torture, really. His prey split open in front of him, so devoutly arching his back in desperate need for stimulation. But the Doctor’s insatiable desire to torment mitigates frustration. Patience is a virtue, yet his is wearing thin.
He leans forward to admire the poor thing, glassy bright eyes glazed with such anguish. He ensures he’s close enough so that even sans glasses, Pantalone sees his lips tug upwards into a predatory smile. Mockery.
His fingers tangle into black in a languid grasp, and he revels in how the mutt leans into his touch with such devastated yearning. A whimper escapes him, resembling the likes of a plea. Ignored, the Doctor’s fingers simply trail a path over his scalp.
Pantalone’s sharp breaths bleed into the damp sounds of his swollen cunt, the sound so obscenely filthy. The feeling of his abdomen tightening once more instills dread in him now, as the clawing and desperate reach of orgasm is ripped from his grasp.
He bears it no more, his voice breaks.
“P—Please, I can’t, I can’t…” He trails off into wordless pleas.
His eyes shut tight as he weeps. Tears adorn his eyelashes, dewdrops upon a spiders web. With a flick of his wrist, the Doctor dismisses the Segment, and Pantalone cries, whether in joy or frustration, the Doctor pays no thought. He reaches for his cheek — a soft gesture; an olive branch — his thumb gathers his tears and he admires their sheen.
Perfect; Perfect.
“You understand your place now, yes?”
A nod.
“You may speak.”
“Yes, I understand.” Even hoarse and breathless, he manages to articulate.
“Good boy. Come.” He leans into the backrest, his lap an inviting contrast to the wooden desk. Pantalone wastes not a second, clambering to sit atop the Doctor.
He balances on his knees above him, not without trembling. A web of translucence strings between his thighs, he drips with an obscene amount of juices. The Doctor could eat him right then and there, but that would surely break the poor thing.
In earnest, despite his masterfully executed repose, Dottore is hardly faring well himself. He’s wrung his patience dry to the very end.
Pantalone looks down, an undeniable plea submerged in his gaze. They beseech permission.
Oh, how the dog has been tamed!
“You may.” The Doctor mutters through a stifled chuckle.
He almost breaks his composure when Pantalone’s slick cunt clamps around his dick, so effortlessly, so perfectly sculpted for him.
In a moment of respite, he rests his forehead against the Doctor’s shoulders with shallow breaths. Dottore so very graciously allows him the short rest, until his head raises and their eyes link.
“Go on.” The Doctor remains slouched into the backrest.
“You—“ Pantalone quickly retracts the insult. (—lazy bastard.) “I have to?” He settles for.
“Are you not spoiled enough day to day?” He sighs. “Do not expect the same treatment from me. You will ride me, or you will remain untouched.”
God damned sadist. The Doctor will never change.
And yet, through the tender currents of electricity that assaults his limbs he forces his hips up. Slick with his own arousal, he hardly struggles to lower himself. His pelvis rocks against him, they connect at the hips with such obscene sounds.
It’s pitiful. It’s agonizing. He’d have sworn the ends of the axons in his legs were singed. Alas the lure of selfish gratification guides him through the anguish. Every movement is a rousing symphony of blind rapture, worth each and every painful spike in his legs.
How his spine arches to press against Dottore with such need, such wretched longing for every inch of skin he can unearth.
So dramatic, the Doctor muses, but awards him nonetheless with the confiscation of his shirt. A mere convenience for him; an invitation for Pantalone.
One taken in stride, it’s not a moment before his hands palm at the Doctor’s chest. Every indent and scar is a delight to run his fingers over, such atrocious beauty in marred skin, a sickly abstract painting.
The Doctor leans back into the expensive plush cushions of the chair as he watches its owner fuck himself on his cock. An overthrown monarch reduced to a mere servant atop his own throne. Oh, the sublime irony.
“Such a sight you are.” A rare praise. “Perhaps I should make a Segment out of you to use as I please.”
“Ah— y—yes— oh gods, oh—“
Such obscenities he babbles in his pleasure. His head leans upon the Doctor’s shoulder as his arms swaddle him. Hardly the strength to lift himself anymore, instead gyrating his pelvis against the slickness and sweat that stretches in between their hips.
As beautiful as the torment is, a reward is overdue.
“Nhh—“ Whines Pantalone as his waist is grasped, handled like a mere rag doll.
“Such a spoiled mutt. Everything I must do in your stead.” He bemoans, though his annoyance is hardly genuine.
The contrast is amusing, how effortlessly the Doctor handles him. Such a lithe thing he was, such gentle framework. He hardly strains as he lifts him, nails dig deep perforations into his waist. The sheer force of the wet slap as he thrusts into him drags indents down his skin, epidermis tearing as carmine orbs glare against his pale complexion.
How beautiful is the Ninth when stained with such a color. A vice in its own right. Red wine. Ichor. Such an angel hand-carved by the Heavenly Principles must have the blood of Gods seeping through his veins.
His cunt clenches around him as a most gentle stream of blood runs down his waist. The Doctor, always so desperate to watch his subjects bleed, whether in science or in sex. Mortal. Ephemeral. Such is the curse of the human form, such a fickle little thing it was. He’d immortalize this sight, if not for the Tsaritsa, then for his own selfish needs.
Pantalone hardly notices the abrasions through his mantra of pleas. Enveloped and swallowed by catharsis, he revels and drowns in an ocean of hedonistic rapture.
Ruined to obedience and at his mercy, Pantalone’s moans far surpass the sound of every slap against his skin. Every keen, every cry akin to pervert worship.
“Ahh—“ A devout cry grazes the Doctor’s ear as fingers gracelessly claw at his back. “Please, please, harder. oh— please Zandik—“
His movements stagger for a moment before tilting his gaze towards Pantalone with such bewildered amusement at shameless audacity.
“Zandik, Regrator? I don’t recall allowing you to address me by name. Doctor will suffice.”
Despite his demand, a wretched delight stirs within him. The sheer temerity to speak his given name; such a vulnerable intimacy. Endearing, almost.
Still, his pleas are granted, as the Doctor’s hands lower and the skin of his rear spills past his fingers. A most intoxicating sight he’d have seen if he hadn’t bent his neck, leaning against Pantalone’s chest to stifle his own breath. Though, it’s hardly necessary when Pantalone’s melodic strains far surpass any sound he could muster.
The Doctor’s hips stutter as he swallows a groan. His rhythm borders on desperate, surely it’d have earned a snide remark if Pantalone lacked his contemporary stupor.
“D—Doctor I,”
“No.” He does not bother listening. “You do not come until I say you can.”
Pantalone lacks the mind to express frustration, he only nods into his shoulder with a feeble sound resembling a whimper.
“Yes, of course.”
“Very good.” The praise envelops him in obedience, he yields to demand.
Hardly the patience, hardly the wait; the Doctor’s thrusts lose their rhythm and his grip leaves the stinging blemish of indents into supple skin. His forehead presses to Pantalone’s chest with a smothered groan, and the banker squirms in place; cunt throbbing as it’s filled.
He hardly gives the Doctor time to catch his breath as he looks down with a gaze that can only constitute a desperate plea. Not even the need to goad him into begging. The devotion is most delightful.
“Please, please, please— Doctor, please.”
Gods, how he begs with such conviction.
Such divine conflict between bliss and torment. How the Doctor wishes to capture his desperation and agony in a vial and inject it into his psyche.
“Please—- Can I—?” The poor thing can’t even find his words anymore as his plea halts in his throat.
“You may.” The Doctor grants.
He could weep.
The Doctor thumbs his clit to put him out of his misery, and he chokes on his breath when Pantalone rides out his orgasm with newfound strength. Serves him right.
Gratification twists at his abdomen — profuse dissipation, legs spasming as he crumbles atop the Doctor. A string of profanities leave him, amusingly uncharacteristic compared to his usual deference.
His forehead drops to Dottore’s shoulder, limp as a rag doll how his posture slumps.
“You were a nuisance.”
“I was a nuisance?” Pantalone lifts his head forthwith, donning an offended expression. “Spare me your hypocrisy.”
The Doctor only chuckles in reply, and it only grows louder at Pantalone’s feeble attempt to stand up straight. Overestimating his resilience, he staggers and almost plummets — but to his fortune is caught by two familiar frigid arms.
The Segment wears the same sneer present on the Prime’s face, to which he scowls; all his builds are a perfect xerox of his unending condescension.
“Clean him.” The Doctor commands, flicking a deft hand at the Segment.
The succinct command tugs at Pantalone’s chest momentarily, and his lips camber upward in amusement. The Doctor has his own peculiar way of expressing affection. Gods forbid if he did it in a direct manner.
Pantalone sighs a breath of relief when he finally looks presentable. Even when clothed, the Doctor’s eyes pry…
His impenitent gawking is ceased when Pantalone pushes his mask upon him; the movement is firm, austere. Yet even so, he takes a brief moment to nestle the cool metal atop his nose comfortably, passively ensuring the ends rest well behind his ears sans threat of slipping.
“Off with you. Both of you.” His gaze wanders to the clock; he sighs. “You’ve set me back an hour.“
“You poor lonesome thing. Perhaps we should keep you company.”
Pantalone rolls his eyes at his thinly veiled derision. “You will do no such thing.”
“Later then.”
“Have you not tormented me enough today?”
“Precisely. I would like to make it up to you, out of the kindness of my heart.”
It takes a discreet maneuver to subtly lead him to the door; before the Banker nudges him out of the room with a light push on his chest. The door shuts in the Doctors’ face, though not without a fleeting;
“Very well, later.”