Archive of Our Own

In September, they lose Signora. 

Not in the line of duty, nor because anything bad happened to her, but because —

“That bitch is getting married?”

When Dottore first hears the news, he’s taken over by an uncontrollable fit of giggles. The thought of Signora — cold, cruel, proud Signora — doing something so mundance as to fall in love, and to abandon her position as a harbinger to get married, of all things…

The subordinate who brought him the information is unmoving from his low kneel as Dottore throws his head back and cackles.

Good news is to be shared. Interesting news, even more so. Unfortunately, Pantalone is in Liyue, and he’d quite possibly have Dottore’s head for incurring the postage fees from Schnezhnaya to Liyue to communicate such a trivial matter.

All the same, for the first time since his school days, Dottore burns to gossip.

It’s Columbina who broaches the subject during one of their sessions in his laboratory. She watches as her blood fills the blue-capped test tubes — or, at least, Dottore thinks she’s watching. He can’t tell through her mask.

“Signora’s getting married,” she says in that dreamy voice of hers. Her tone is light as always, and there’s no way to tell simply through her tone whether she thinks this is a good or bad thing, so Dottore asks her outright.

“A good thing,” she answers, “even though I’ll miss her.” She pauses. “I envy her.”

“You envy her for giving up her claim to power, wealth, resources, for a life of domesticity?”

“I envy her for finding her most important person in the world. And that person is so important to her that she’ll be happier having a life with him than a life with all the power, wealth, and resources the Fatui have ever given her.”

“Hardly anything to envy. You have both the status of a harbinger, and your friendships with Four and Seven.”

“Mm, they are both very important to me,” Columbina agrees. “I am told, however, that it is different to be in love.”

“Oh?” Dottore removes the needle from Columbina’s arm and presses on the opening with a wad of cotton. Though sentiment is a tedious concept applied to himself, it’s interesting enough to study in someone else. “Do you think you’d leave everything behind if you ever found your most important person?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to cut all ties,” Columbina answers after a moment of thoughtfulness. “But I probably would, if I had to. That’s what being love is, isn’t it? You put them above anything else.”

“So they say,” says Dottore dryly, swirling the thick scarlet liquid in its test tube. 

There’s a knock on his office door. Dottore, who’s working through the pile of paperwork on his desk, calls for the person on the other side to enter. One of his agents steps quickly inside.

“Lord Harbinger,” she says, dropping to a kneel.

Dottore does not remember what all his subordinates look like. In fact, it would be fair to say he doesn’t know what most of them look like. But he’s wise to remember, at least, what his spies look like, especially the ones he sets on his fellow harbingers.

“I take it Pantalone’s back from Liyue, if you have also returned.”

“Lord Pantalone arrived last night,” she reports. “He went straight home to rest and has had no significant activities to date.”

“What of his activities in Liyue?” he asks, scribbling in the description of one of his projects in an application for funding.

“He has attended diligently to matters at the Northland Bank. Other than overseeing operations of day-to-day activities, much of his time was spent repairing the Fatui’s relationship with the Liyuean authorities, primarily their Secretary of Trade and Commerce.”

There’s a pause in the scratching of Dottore’s pen against paper. “Oh?” he asks, interest piqued. 

“The unfortunate situation with Eight and Eleven have strained the Northland Bank’s relationship with the Secretary. Lord Pantalone has taken significant effort to gain back his trust.”

“And what efforts were these?” The scratching resumes as Dottore turns his attention back to his application.

“Lunches and dinners with the Secretary, excursions to Liyue’s cultural heritage sites, often accompanied by large donations. I have also intercepted correspondence between the two of a personal nature. I believe Lord Pantalone left Mr. Zhongli his mailing address in Schnezhnaya before he departed Liyue.”

“Hmm,” he turns a page. “I’ve heard all I needed. You’re dismissed.”

The agent appears surprised at the abrupt dismissal, no doubt being in possession of more information that she’s yet to disclose. However, she’s smart enough not to question his instructions, so she thanks him quietly and quickly exits the office. When the door clicks shut behind her, Dottore places his pen back on the desk and looks down at his handiwork. It’s utterly illegible because he’s been doodling nothing but loops over the past ten minutes. He balls it up and tosses it in the trash.

How interesting. Pantalone and Mr. Zhongli. The Secretary must be a formidable force, having charmed Tartaglia to the point of being besotted by him. Of course, there was never any danger of anything serious developing between Mr. Zhongli and Eleven, because Child was an idiot, and someone of the Secretary’s caliber was surely not interested in idiots. A month ago, Dottore would have been equally dismissive at the thought of Pantalone falling for anyone, but then again, if the same question had been posited to him about Signora…

And Pantalone and Mr. Zhongli were similar in many ways. It would not require much imagination to think Mr. Zhongli could be Pantalone’s most important person. And then… what then? Were they to have two weddings to celebrate within a year? Would the Tsaritsa have two vacancies to fill?

Fun as it is to surmise these things about his friend, at the end of the day, Dottore is a scientist. He knows the futility of mindless speculation. He’ll simply have to postpone further hypothesising until more information becomes available. 

It’s been a long time since Dottore’s had the pleasure of Pantalone’s company across from him in the man’s living room, sipping tea from fine china. He watches as Pantalone blows gently across his tea cup, tilting his head side to side. A cozy contentedness sits in his chest.

There are many who would call Dottore a monster, and Dottore himself is inclined to agree. He is, however, capable of feeling emotion, however sporadically, including affection. He feels no shame in admitting he had missed Pantalone, and it delights him now to be able to bask in the other man’s attention.

“Tell me about your trip to Liyue.”

“I would hardly call it a trip,” Pantalone sets his teacup against its saucer. “It was mostly work.”

“Surely it couldn’t have been all paperwork,” says Dottore. “You must have had some time to explore the city.” He is fully aware of the answer.

“Mm, some work dinners and cultural excursions. Doing business in Liyue is all about building relationships first.”

“I trust you were successful, then. You seem remarkably pleased.”

“Of course I was successful. I managed to secure a promising relationship,” here, Pantalone takes a sip of tea, “on behalf of the Northland Bank.”

“I should offer my congratulations,” says Dottore, pausing very deliberately, “to the Bank.”

Pantalone looks at him oddly, having picked up the strange phrasing, but does not comment. “The Bank thanks you.”

Dottore leans back in his seat.

“Have you heard that Signora is getting married?”

“Of course. Tartaglia sent me a very excited letter.”

“You didn’t chastise him about the postage fees?”

“It was five hundred mora, Dottore, how stingy do you think I am?”

Dottore harrumphs. “So? Laughable, is it not?”

“That she found someone she loves enough to leave behind her status as a harbinger? I find it rather romantic.”

“You never struck me as a romantic, dear banker.”

“I’m not. I’m merely human.”

“So you think you would do the same?” Dottore stirs his tea with a spoon to disguise the degree of investment he has in the answer. “Would you also abandon your position if you ever fell in love?”

“Probably,” says Pantalone. “If it were asked of me.”

Dottore sets his spoon down. “Do you think you’re capable of falling in love?”

If Pantalone thinks this is an odd question, he doesn’t let it show. He wears a mild smile, the one that’s ever-present on his face. “Yes. Why not?”

Why not, indeed. Dottore sips his own tea, the flavour bursting off the tip of his tongue. The aroma of the tea is unfamiliar. It’s surely something Pantalone brought back from Liyue, perhaps on recommendation from Mr. Zhongli. Perhaps even as a gift.

He considers quietly as he takes another sip of tea.

Pantalone’s answers had not surprised him in the slightest. In truth, he had played out this conversation already and predicted with smug accuracy how the other man would respond. And, along with these predictions, he had come to a conclusion.

He would not allow Pantalone to leave. He would not accept it.

He would not allow there to be anyone in Pantalone’s life who would be more important to him than Dottore… for he knew that he was important to Pantalone, just as he knew Pantalone was important to him.

There wouldn’t be anyone more important than him in Pantalone’s life if he were Pantalone’s most important person. All he has to do is make Pantalone fall in love with him. 

He knows, however, that Pantalone is a rational person. Careful. Self-preserving. Far too intelligent to fall in love with someone who would never love him back. 

This means, unfortunately, that Dottore himself would have to fall in love with Pantalone, or at least make Pantalone think he did. Whether it was the former or the latter would depend on whether someone like Dottore would ever be capable of falling in love. That, however, is a question to which he has no answer. Is he even capable of love?

Well, when Dottore doesn’t have an answer to something…

“I am concerned at the way you are looking at me,” Pantalone says with a polite smile. “I’ve seen you look at your lab rats in the same way.”

Dottore school his features, smiling equally as politely back. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to unsettle you. How shall I make it up to you?”

Pantalone laughs. The lack of denial was not lost on him. However, he’s been friends with Dottore long enough to know better than to point it out. “You can play me something on the piano. It’s been a while since I heard you play.”

Obligingly, Dottore walks over and settles himself at the piano. As he plucks experimentally at the keys in search of a good piece to play, a thought occurs to him. 

Pantalone has an expensive grand-piano at the centre of his living room. Pantalone does not play the piano. Dottore plays the piano. Dottore plays the piano in Pantalone’s living room, and no matter if it’s been a week or six months since he last touched it, the piano covering and sheet music is always left in the same state as the last time he’s played. 

Ergo, Pantalone bought the piano for him and only him.

A self-satisfied smirk curls on his lips as he strikes the beginning chords of the piece.

He’s played this song often enough that he plays on muscle memory alone. As his fingers glide across the keys, he’s keenly aware of Pantalone approaching him from behind. Though he knows the song well enough that he can turn around to look at his friend, he enjoys the idea of Pantalone’s attention on him far more than the confirmation itself. 

When he finishes, he looks up to see Pantalone leaning against the instrument, one hand propped against his cheek. There’s a fond look in his eyes as he peers down at Dottore.

“Well?” Dottore asks. He spreads his arms wide. “What did you think?”

Pantalone smiles. It’s a real one, toothy, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I missed your playing,” he says simply.

The words bring a warm feeling in Dottore’s heart. Affection again, but whether from romantic or platonic love, he’s unable to place.

Dottore stands up. The sudden movement doesn’t cause Pantalone to startle, but his expression shifts back into his business smile. His eyes are still arched, but they don’t crinkle in the corners, and his lips are closed. 

He’s on guard.

Dottore doesn’t tell him to relax, that he can trust him. They both know that would be a lie.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks.

“At this moment?” asks Pantalone. “No.”

Dottore takes slow, deliberate steps toward Pantalone, crowding him against the piano. If Pantalone is wondering what on earth Dottore is up to, he does not show it. The harbinger makes no attempt at escape, only leaning back slightly to look up at the scientist. He continues to smile placidly. Only his slightly quickened breath betrays the fact that he’s feeling anything at all.

“You’ve always shown such trust in me,” Dottore steps even closer into his space. “Lying willingly on my operating table. Letting me cut open your lungs,” he presses a finger into Pantalone’s chest, “replace your kidneys,” he slides a hand under Pantalone’s suit jacket, thumbing circles along the side of his waist, “turn you inside and out. What have I ever done to earn your loyalty?”

Pantalone tracks his movements, curious but unspeaking, choosing instead to wait and observe. Dottore trails his fingers down his chest, tracing the patterns on his dress shirt all the way down until just above his belt. His hand lingers suggestively, knuckles brushing against the leather before sliding back up his chest, one hand snaking up around Pantalone’s throat to thumb the outline of his jaw…

It’s only when Dottore tilts Pantalone’s chin up, close enough that they can feel each other’s breath dancing across their lips, does the smile slide off Pantalone’s face.

“What are you doing?” he asks, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.

“An experiment,” Dottore answers matter-of-factly.

“And what, pray tell, is the experiment for?”

Dottore strokes a thumb across Pantalone’s lower lip. “I’ll let you know if the results are promising.”

“I should think I deserve to know sooner,” says Pantalone, “seeing as I seem to be an active subject in your experiment.” He doesn’t back away when Dottore draws even closer.

“You won’t be harmed,” Dottore murmurs into Pantalone’s parted lips.

“You ought to tell me anyway,” says Pantalone, the husk in his voice betraying his desire through his stern tone. “If only so I can be a cooperative test subject.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what to do,” says Dottore. “Close your eyes, Pantalone.”

Pantalone’s eyes slide closed as Dottore bridges the gap between them. For a man with such sharp edges, Pantalone’s lips are surprisingly soft. His kiss, however, is anything but — he licks into Dottore’s mouth, nipping with his teeth, curling a fist painfully into Dottore’s hair.

Dottore pulls back, a hand pressing against Pantalone’s chest to stop the man from chasing after him.

“No,” he says. “Gently.”

Pantalone loosens his hand obediently from Dottore’s hair. His hand slides down to nuzzle against Dottore’s cheek as he places feather-light pecks against his mouth. “Is this gentle enough?”

“A little too gentle,” says Dottore, leaning down to kiss Pantalone more insistently.

This time, it’s Dottore who’s being held back with a hand to his chest. “I wouldn’t want to ruin you experiment,” says Pantalone, continuing to brush Dottore’s lips with the barest of grazes.

“Pantalone,” Dottore groans in response.

With a breathy chuckle, the other man wraps his arms around Dottore’s neck and pulls him down on top of him against the piano. Their mouths slide against each other in a slow, steady rhythm, close-mouthed and chaste. Dottore allows himself to sink into Pantalone warm embrace. He hadn’t expected such exquisite pleasure from a kiss, but the thrill of it makes his head spin. His arms, braced on either side of Pantalone’s head, shake with the effort of holding himself up. 

“You are kissing me like a lover,” Pantalone whispers against his lips.

“Do you want me to treat you like my lover?” Dottore asks, pulling his thoughts with great effort back into solid form from the haze of enjoyment.

“I struggle to understand what experiment you are conducting.”

“Then do not think,” he places a kiss at the base of Pantalone’s throat, eliciting a gasp. The other man’s eyes slip closed, head thrown back and jaw slack as Dottore trails kisses up his Adam’s apple, sucking on the sensitive skin on the side of his neck. “Focus on feeling. Let me do the experimenting.”

“You — oh — you’re… mmm…”

“My, you’re sensitive here,” Dottore circles his tongue on the silken skin of Pantalone’s neck, smooth as the ivory that his fingers had just danced across. Pantalone moans deliciously, fisting a hand around Dottore’s shirt. He can feel the other man’s arousal brushing against his own. Experimentally, he grinds his hips down. Pantalone jerks, arching his back, and a frisson of pleasure shocks through his own body.

“Did you do this with the Secretary?” The question slips out of him unintentionally. 

Laughter rumbles out of the banker. “I knew you had spies on me.”

“You’d be a fool not to have spies on your fellow harbingers as well.”

“And what did your spies tell you about me and the Secretary?” Pantalone bucks his hips up tantalisingly slow. “I surely would have noticed if they followed us into the bedroom.”

Dottore’s grip tightens around Pantalone’s hips, half in reaction to the sharp stab of jealousy, half to stop himself from thrusting against Pantalone’s erection that was just barely missing his own cock.

“You’re messing with me,” he growls, forcing Pantalone’s face up with a hand at his throat. He feels Pantalone’s cock twitch against his trousers.

“Surely it’s not so hard to believe. Have you not had your fair share of lovers?”

“Do not insult my intelligence,” he squeezes his hand, grinding his hips forward, watching as Pantalone’s mouth falls open as his eyes roll back. “Look how needy you are for me. You haven’t done this in a long time. Certainly not with him.”

Pantalone lets out a soft, “fuck”, head thumping backward. Dottore braces the back of his head just in time to stop it from colliding painfully against the hard wood.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Pantalone asks. “Here, against the piano?”

Dottore captures his lips in another kiss. The hand at Pantalone’s throat smoothes out to caress lovingly at his neck, an apology for its previous roughness. He pulls backward, tugging gently at Pantalone’s tie in a gesture to follow him, leading him away from the piano.

“No. No,” he says, punctuating his words with kisses, “and no.”

“Three no’s?” Pantalone asks. Dottore can see the gears in his mind turn as he tries to reconcile each no with his previous questions.

“No, I don’t take lovers,” Dottore pieces together the first set of question and answer for him. Pantalone’s eyes widen in genuine surprise, either due to the fact itself, or at its ready disclosure. 

“No, you’re not going to take me against the piano, I presume,” he says in lieu of commenting on Dottore’s admission.

Dottore kisses him one more time, slow and languid, twirling Pantalone’s hair pleasurably around his fingers. He touches their foreheads together and whispers, “And no, I don’t intend to fuck you.”

Pantalone lets out a small exhale. “No?” His voice is tinged ever so slightly with disappointment. 

“I don’t want to fuck you, Pantalone,” he murmurs next to his ear. “I want to make love to you.”

The other man tenses in his arms. “Zandik,” he says, a dangerous note in his tone. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if this is still part of your experiment —”

“It is,” Dottore says bluntly. A cloud forms over Pantalone’s expression, which Dottore smooths out by stroking a thumb over his brow. When he tries to lean in for another kiss, however, the banker turns his face away.

“I would let you use my body for the sake of your scientific endeavours,” he says. “But my emotions…”

“Oh, my darling banker,” says Dottore softly. He tilts Pantalone’s chin back towards him so that they’re looking into each other’s eyes. “You misunderstand me. The experiment is not intended to subjugate you.” Without breaking eye contact, he sinks to his knees, revelling in the way Pantalone’s attention is fixed intently upon him. “Quite the contrary,  I wish to submit myself to you.”

Pantalone’s breath hitches as Dottore closes his eyes, nuzzling at the tent in Pantalone’s trousers. There’s another twitch of his cock, which Dottore mouths at eagerly.

“May I, darling?” His hand rests over Pantalone’s belt buckle.

Though there’s still a cautious reticence in his demeanour, Pantalone ultimately nods. “Yes,” he breathes out, moving to undo his belt. For his efforts, his hands are knocked away.

“Let me do it,” says the scientist. His hands work deftly, though evidently not fast enough for the banker, whose hands tremble in anticipation at his sides. When he finally unhooks the leather strap from the belt loops, he unzips Pantalone’s trousers and lets them slide to the ground.

Pantalone moans at the relief. The top of his cock peeks out from the band of his underwear, already leaking with pre-cum. When Dottore run his tongue along the silk of his underwear across the outline of his penis, he curses with a gasp.

“God, Dottore, please…”

“Mm, but I want to take my time.” He plants small kisses on the inside of Pantalone’s thighs, which are twitching against the strain. He nestles his nose into Pantalone’s crotch and breathes in, the scent of sex sending his head spinning. “You smell so good.”

“Dottore…” Pantalone’s expression is scrunched tight.

“Pantalone,” Dottore peers up at him. “Please look at me, darling. I want you to watch me when I take you in my mouth.”

Pantalone makes a strangled noise, but he does as he’s told. His eyes are cloudy with lust, but they don’t leave the doctor as he pulls down his underwear, letting the fully-hard length spring free. Dottore licks at the beads of pre-cum experimentally, savouring the taste on his tongue. It’s saltier than he expected. Carefully, he wraps his lips around the head and takes Pantalone in his mouth. Above him, Pantalone gives a low moan. His hand comes to a rest at the nape of Dottore’s neck.

Dottore pumps his head up and down, slowly. Pantalone makes the prettiest sounds, a nice reward for his hard work. When he pulls his head back, a trail of saliva follows.

“Are you still watching me, Pantalone?”

Gentle if not unsteady fingers tilts his chin up. A thumb wipes away the saliva. “I’m watching,” Pantalone answers hoarsely.

He takes Pantalone’s length in his mouth again, this time at a quicker pace. His hand comes up to fondle Pantalone’s balls, causing the man’s hips to buck forward.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, reaching up to cup Dottore’s face.

Dottore hums, reverberations catching where Pantalone’s dick connects with the back of his throat. He continues his up and down rhythm. Pantalone’s hand slides to the back of his head, curling into his hair. His other hand rests over Dottore’s on his hip.

He can tell the other man is close when the hand over his starts to shake. Hips stutter forward jerkily, involuntarily, and Pantalone’s little gasps and moans have gotten quieter as he focuses singularly on the orgasm building in his lower core. The hand in his hair is deliberately still, as if its owner were aware that it would be yanking painfully at the soft locks if it had its way. Dottore can picture Pantalone staring down at him, eyebrows knit in concentration, holding himself back from thrusting wantonly into Dottore’s mouth.

When he feels a sharp pull of his hair, he knows Pantalone is at the precipice of orgasm. With a twirl of his tongue along the underside of the shaft, he pulls off from Pantalone’s dick and looks up at him through his lashes.

“Of course you’re a fucking tease,” Pantalone groans, head slumping forward.

Rising, Dottore touches their lips together. His own lips are slick with saliva, and he can still taste the other man in his mouth. He wonders if Pantalone can taste himself. If he can, he doesn’t seem to have any objection to it, as he licks into Dottore’s mouth eagerly and pulls their bodies flush together. 

“I can’t have you come yet,” Dottore chastises, steadying Pantalone’s hips as they grind against him, desperately seeking friction. “I told you, I want to make love to you.”

“Where?” Pantalone asks, voice low with need. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Dottore agrees.

They stumble from the living room and up the stairs, shedding clothes in between sloppy kisses. There’s a cold bite from the air against Dottore’s naked skin, replaced quickly by the warmth of Pantalone’s hands, lips, tongue. When they reach the second floor, Pantalone crowds him backwards down the hall and against a door. Dottore fumbles behind him for the doorknob, the other arm wrapped around Pantalone’s shoulders to hold him close —

The door gives way from behind him. Dottore holds them upright, turning them around so that now he’s pushing Pantalone backwards until his knees hit the bed, and then they’re tumbling over —

He braces himself over his partner, taking care to lower himself slowly. Pantalone wraps his legs around him. Their mouths connect and their hips rock in unison at a tempo only they have the right to set.

When Dottore pulls back, their lips part with a slick sound that sends another sliver of excitement to his groin. He slides his underwear off, groaning at the sense of relief as his cock finally grows to its full state of arousal.

Pantalone shuffles up the bed, legs spread open to allow him entry. 

It’s a this moment that Dottore pauses, staring down at his partner. 

He had not thought this would be happening today, when he first received Pantalone’s invitation for tea, and so he hadn’t had the time to do proper research. Still, he knows there’s something missing, because surely it would be painful for them both if he were to slide into Pantalone like this.  

From the bed, Pantalone is looking up at him. There’s an odd expression on his face, almost like uncertainty, but not quite.

“Dottore… you said you didn’t take lovers, but have you… have you ever…?”

The way Dottore flushes scarlet at the question that had not even been asked is answer enough. “I’ve… not with a man…” he starts, words stilted.

He can’t bear the tender way Pantalone is looking at him.

“Oh, darling. Come over here.”

His cheeks burn with humiliation, but he lets himself be pulled down next to the banker. Pantalone smooths his hair back, a gesture he’s sure is meant to be comforting rather than patronising.

“There’s a bottle in the nightstand,” he says, nodding his head to the side of the bed.

Embarrassment giving way to curiosity, Dottore opens the top drawer of the nightstand to find an innocuous-looking glass bottle. He uncorks it.

“It’s lubricant,” Pantalone explains, holding out his palm for Dottore to pour some of it into his open hand. He runs it over his fingers until there’s a heavy coat, then reaches down. “Like this,” he says, inserting a finger into himself.

Dottore pours some of the liquid onto his own hand. At Pantalone’s encouraging nod, he slides his middle finger slowly into him.

Pantalone inhales sharply. Dottore freezes, wondering if he should stay still or pull out. 

“No, it’s good,” Pantalone says, catching the startled look on Dottore’s face. “You’re doing a good job. Now add another finger.”

The scientist slides in his index finger, then his ring finger. Pantalone squirms pleasurably, sighing softly as he sinks into the sheets. 

Pulling his fingers out, Dottore pours out more lubricant and takes himself in his hand. He lines himself up with Pantalone’s entrance. “May I?” he asks

Pantalone nods, legs spreading wider.

Dottore pushes in, clenching his jaw in an effort to go slow. The tight, slick warmth around him feels so good, and if he were acting on instinct, he’d thrust himself fully inside. There’s enough resistance, however, that he has the good sense to stop when only the tip of his penis is inside.

“Is this okay?”

Pantalone nods. With this confirmation, Dottore pushes himself further inside, still taking care to take it slow, driving his hips forward at an agonising pace. At long last, when he’s buried fully inside his partner, he looks down at Pantalone to check on his wellbeing one last time.

“Dottore,” says the banker, “move.”

“Oh, God.” With Pantalone’s final word of permission, Dottore pulls his hip back and thrusts.

“Fuck,” Pantalone arches backward, balling his fists around the sheets beneath him. “Fuck, Dottore, yes, please!”

“Feofan,” Dottore gasps, hips snapping forward, head thrown back as he quietly chants Pantalone’s name up at the skies. “Feofan, Feofan…”

“Please, please, more” Pantalone begs.

Dottore quickens his pace, shoving deeper, harder. He closes his eyes as he loses himself in his own pleasure, concentrating only on the sound of Pantalone’s breathy sobs, of skin slapping against skin as he thrusts wantonly into Pantalone.

Pantalone’s legs wrap tightly against him, pulling Dottore closer to him.

“Dottore, please, I need…”

“Yes, darling?” Dottore drops his attention back down to his partner. “What do you need?”

“I need… ahh… I need…”

“Anything, please, just tell me…”

“Please, Zandik, please, kiss me.”

“Fuck,” Dottore swears, leaning down to give Feofan a kiss. It ends up being more a touch of their lips as they gasp into each other, open-mouth, their tongues sliding against each other wet and heavy.

“I’m close,” Pantalone whispers. “I’m going to — ahh—” He turns his face into the pillow, sobbing into the soft cotton.

“No,” Dottore turns his chin back toward him. “Don’t look away. I want to look into your eyes when you come.”

Pantalone tries to turn away again, but Dottore holds his chin firmly in place. Pantalone’s eyebrows are knit, eyes hazy with arousal and building orgasm. 

“Let me see you,” Dottore coaxes, voice honey-sweet as he thrusts furiously into Pantalone. “Darling, darling, please, come for me.”

“Zandik!” Pantalone comes with a cry, thrusting his head against the pillow and back arching off the bed. Dottore rides him through the orgasm, hips snapping forward, brushing his hair back as Pantalone squirms and writhes. Their bellies are pressed together, slick with sweat and come. The other man is still sobbing his name as he comes down from the high of his climax.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Dottore breathes, watching as Pantalone lies bonelessly against the bed, chest heaving, looking back up at Dottore through hooded, eyes. “And so obedient,” he adds, brushing a thumb over Feofan’s fluttering eyelashes. “Such a good boy.”

“I’ve seen what you do to your test subjects,” Pantalone slurs, still not having recovered his strength. “It takes a greater man than me to dare mess up your experiments.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Dottore says immediately. “I haven’t. I’d never.”

“You haven’t,” Pantalone agrees. He reaches up to wrap his arms around Dottore’s neck, pulling him back down. “My good doctor.”

“My Feofan,” Dottore whispers. Now that Pantalone has come, he can focus on his own orgasm, which has been building steadily in his gut. He slides in and out, clutching at Pantalone as he suckles at the soft skin of his neck.

“My darling Dottore.”

“My name,” Dottore gasps. “Call me by my name.”

Pantalone turns his lips to Dottore’s ear. “Zandik,” he murmurs, sending shivers down Dottore’s spine. “Darling. Zandik. Love.”

“God, Feofan, keep going.”

“You’re doing so well,” he encourages as Dottore fucks furiously into him. “So well, darling, so well.”

“I, oh, Feofan…”

“Zandik,” Pantalone whispers in his ear. “Zandik, I love you.”

And this, out of everything, tips Dottore over the edge. He captures Pantalone’s lips in a ferocious kiss, shouting his orgasm into his mouth, waves of ecstasy crashing over him as he sucks at Pantalone’s tongue, hard, hands clutching at the sheets in a death grip.

He thinks he blacks out, because the next thing he registers is lying flat on his black. There’s the feeling of a wet cloth against his stomach. He’s too blissed out to register what’s happening, or to sit up to take a proper look. He’s still dizzy from the high of climaxing.

As the strength gradually seeps back into his body, however, so does coherent thought into his mind.

His head swirls with the echoes of Pantalone’s last words to him.

I love you.

I love you.

Zandik, I love you.

Moments later, when they’re laying side by side under the sheets, Dottore finally finds his voice again. “What was that,” he says flatly, “about toying with each other’s emotions?”

Pantalone turns on his side, burying his face into the crook of Dottore’s neck. When he next speaks, the misery is so raw that anyone can hear the confession for what it is.

“Who said anything about toying?”