Archive of Our Own

The Fatui Harbingers’ meetings.

A gathering of the toughest fighters and most formidable strategists of Snezhnaya, if not of all Teyvat – the mention of them, no, the thought alone was enough to make many men shiver. Most would not dare imagine what was spoken there, more sinister than fathomable, reunions that, no doubt, ended with a symphony of tyrannical laughter.

Yet, once inside the room where it happened, it painted a different picture : one of tired men and women sitting at the pinnacle of disinterest unless they were concerned or could sneak a snide remark about their colleagues’ reports. It ended up consisting of empty stares across the bareness of the room, the patterns left on the spotless floor by the vibrant stained glass, or the intricacies of the baroque pillars. Overall, a sweet, aggravating time for everyone involved, but a necessary one regardless.

That was, if the Harbingers had the decency to show up. 

Ordinarily, they did, moreso to avoid the long-winded paternal-like wrath of Pierro if they didn't have an extraordinary reason to miss it. Thus it seemed today the Regrator did have said-extraordinary reason, one that had to be unheard of in the history of reasons, for the sole fact that, as the main banker of the Fatui, his insight was needed in a large number of affairs. Typically, he was one of the few that needed to listen at all times, for if he missed a sentence or two, it could very well cost him millions. 

But no, that day, for the full hour that the meeting took place, he was nowhere to be seen – which meant that his closest partner in work, Il Dottore, was assigned the grueling task of taking notes to report to him later on. Not that the action itself wasn’t in the scholar’s habit to begin with, but he had been, on multiple occasions, scolded by the Regrator for his awful, doctor-esque (ironically), chicken scratch on crucial funding contracts. He’d argued that after years upon years of studies, he had developed a liking for effectiveness rather than beauty – but his pretexts were discarded, and he was asked yet again to at least differentiate his i's from his l's.

Why Dottore would even put in that effort for someone that did not deign show up, he wondered, but briefly so. In truth, he was more than aware the reason lied in an intricate mixture of endearment and fear of his colleague, but the Doctor would let the Heavenly Principles reign upon Teyvat before he admitted to that.

As the reunion drew to a close, Dottore flicked his wrist to draw a sharp concluding line on the parchment. He scribbled off the few unkind words and finished his third ruin core design, before glancing at his latest bullet points. Effectively deciphering each word with a seventy five percent accuracy, he deemed it a success and headed back to his quarters.

— 

Three knocks. For some obscure reason, they were less aggravating than all the ones that had preceded. Perhaps it laid in their bluntness, seemingly undaunted by the prospect of bothering the Second Harbinger of the Fatui. Dottore's head rose from his research, carmine eyes following soon – it took them an instant to unblur, accommodating to his office’s moonlit hue instead of his ochre lantern-lit paperwork.

"Yes?"

A handful of seconds passed before the door crept open, just enough to see the person standing behind the carved wooden entrance. Then, another handful of seconds to discern who it was. 

"Oh my," Dottore raised a brow, unable for even an instant to stop a smile from creeping on his lips. "Sound the alarm, I’ve got the fugitive."

Settling his quill down by the discarded document, he swiftly crossed his arms and leaned back into his armchair. A split second later, he lifted from his seat and made quick work of the space between him and his guest, whose lips soon mirrored Dottore.

"Having a swell evening, Doctor?" the banker asked amiably, hand sliding off the doorknob. The gloves and their many jewelry disappeared inside his wrap, ever so gracefully, with no unnecessary graze to the coat, as if his every movement was rehearsed to leave no space for imperfection. Not a hair out of place, not a breath unnecessary. The contrast with the cluttered office was laughable. The scientist huffed.

"Awfully nice of you to wonder," his words bathing in sarcasm. "Let’s get straight to the point though, shall I bring the notes? I presume you’re here for them."

"Now, now," Pantalone shook his head, the chain of his glasses following his movement as a perfect frame to his face. "Painting me as heartless so hastily… I do want to know about your evening."

"Hah! "

Beyond his disdain, Dottore was, in a way, relieved to see his colleague alive and well. Afterall, a few hours sufficed for a Harbinger to turn to old talk and in a coffin too large for their remains. Yet, he couldn’t help the slight irritation at how alive and well the man looked. The Second turned his back to Pantalone, instead slowly walking to his desk and, in a flick of his arm, grabbing the meager stack of paper that lay on one of his secondary tables. He gave a brief nod to Upsilon, a segment he’d assigned to re-write the report properly. What he’d do for that damn Regrator – rather not to hear his disapproving whining.

"Nothing catches my eye as to the reason of your absence," the Doctor claimed turning back, feet swaying nonchalantly as he made his way under the careful gaze of his funding partner. He handed the papers, Pantalone’s own hand motioning to grab them but noticing the man’s iron grip. "So, then, what was it?"

Pantalone tilted his head. Whether or not his smile bore genuine amusement was quite hard to tell.  "My, are we not allowed privacy in this palace? I might as well return to Haeresys, I’m sure my presence is missed back there."

"Your presence was missed right here," the Doctor remarked matter-of-factly. "Today ."

"How sweet of you…"

Dottore clicked his tongue, but his tone attempted a shift to camaraderie. "Now, you know I’m not one to betray, no one else will be made aware."

"You’re one to lie and trick." Pantalone noted. However, Dottore was also one to gorge himself on pride when standing as the only beholder of some kind of knowledge. A play on vices that, strangely, rendered him trustworthy… At times. "You’re withholding the report if I don’t tell you, is that it? I knew you childish, but to this extent…"

Dottore stayed still, a slight smile adorning his features as he patiently stood. In a game of patience, he knew well enough he didn’t have the high ground – but every once in a while, Pantalone would merely pretend his unwillingness to divulge something, as to have a little fun, make himself oh so desirable and cryptic. It seemed today was one of those.

"Fine, you may know," the Regrator sighed softly. All too predictable, both knew it. The faintest trace of violet peeked from under thick lashes, unfocused and trailed to the side, as a hand went to rest under his chin. "I have ordered an attire for our special Fontaine operation next week. Operation which, I am sure, you have discussed within the meeting. It turns out the seamstress had taken a latency, and it was required they take my measurements as soon as possible - which entailed, right as the meeting started."

Dottore’s lips straightened. Had his mask sat higher, it’d have revealed the scrunch of his nose. "Measurements? Is that truly your excuse?"

Pantalone scoffed. "You obviously lack any knowledge of how bespoke garments work." A tinge of arrogance, or disdain, a likelihood of both. "For your information, it can take up to an hour. Not that you’d be aware, you insist on showing up in the exact same shirt no matter the occasion."

The Doctor’s tone spoke of puzzlement as his mask lowered to the current top of his outfit. "...Now, there’s nothing wrong with my shirt…," he said, mostly under his breath. His face rose back to the Regrator, whose single raised brow suggested otherwise. "...In any case, I don’t have that kind of time to spare."

"And I care little." He gave a quick tug at the sheets that still shared their grasps. "May I have the report now?" 

Dottore cocked his head, seemingly still unsatisfied, but he eventually let go. In a blink, the banker’s eyes lowered to the document.

"Oh, my, something legible!" Pantalone took a step further inside the office, brushing past Dottore, disregarding this one’s grunt. The Ninth then turned to Upsilon, giving him a nod. "Thank you, dear scribe."

"You’re most welcome, Regrator," the segment replied, although his smile upturned as he felt Dottore’s glare drill into him. 

—

The Fontaine Operation - or the Coup de Grâce , as the spies spoke of it, as the report would transcribe. The goal of it was straightforward : eliminate the Gladieux Commission Ambassador, which had repeatedly been deemed a considerable threat to the Fatui. The Harbingers had decided on the Fontaine masked ball to play their cards, since the immense crowd of Teyvat-wide tourists would drown suspicions far more than a business-meeting-turned-bloody would – not that the Fatui necessarily minded the attention per usual, it seemed the Ambassador had a bit too much power and security for them to take down all at once. Therefore, they were to begin with the crowned man, the one on top of the secret operations to take down the Tsaritsa. 

Due to the all-time-high degree of treason and external spies within the Fatui, it proved necessary to send true men of trust. In any case, it had been too long since most of them had departed from their wintry home, much to the Knave’s displeasure.

A third of the Harbingers were to partake in the operation, only a handful necessary to pursue the plan in all its intricacies. Arlecchino would stay on guard at all times – an ace when it came to rapid information gathering, aware of the venue hall well enough to ensure a safe flight option at any given time. Dottore would guise himself as an esteemed guest who, unbeknownst to his inviters, had a ‘tragic little accident’ and could not make it, neither to the ball nor alive. The undercover man would so serve to distract some nosy bodyguards as well as concocting a saccharine beverage for the Ambassador, one that would make Pantalone’s job all the easier : slowly numb down the target’s cognitive functions, allowing the Regrator to escort him to a separate location and have a simpler time wrapping up the mission. After all was set into place, Tartaglia would handle and dispose of the body away from the crime scene, and so were their plans established.

They set out by noon : all of them settled in various carriages that would take a few hours to their first destination and stay until their departure, the Grand Lotus Hotel. A luxurious, palatial and boldly teal resort that did not shy away from letting its architecture eclipse the rest of the Court of Fontaine. A red entry carpet had been displayed for the event, an amusingly foreshadowing welcome for the Harbingers. Upon their arrival, an hour-long stay was enough to acquaint themselves with some guests, as well as prepare their attire and silently rehearse it all.

Once settled, it was merely a matter of intel gathering before the night bloomed into golden ornaments and dresses twirling by chandeliers. It rang more like posh vanity than true high-class, and perhaps Pantalone held a tad too much disdain for their presence to stay impartial. He was the first to arrive, arm intertwined with Arlecchino’s as they flashed their friendliest, most ostentatious smiles at the halved masked faces of extravagant passerby. 

They themselves were a sight for sore eyes ; Arlecchino wore white, red and black in a tight suit, a tailcoat falling to her heels in a typical Fontaine fashion statement. A mask with short ears only allowed a peek of the red crosses from her gaze. As for him, Pantalone kept a rather humble approach, an all-black and silver attire, coat sleeves falling in a sharp pattern, an owl-ish beak that stayed sharp despite its undulating design. With each of his steps, warm Qingxin and osmanthus flourished, a touch of dried fruit, of leather, of imperium. A signature scent he carried at all times.

Drowning in the unending sea of ludicrous veils, fineries and charms, they sauntered their way through the crowd and butlers, though their eyes analyzed every visage they could. Arlecchino gave two small coughs, and brought out a finely woven cloth that she covered her lips with, only to murmur at Pantalone’s ear.

"I’ve noticed a particularly boastful invitee, have you?"

As he breached his eyes open, the Regrator let out a short hum. Eyes on the target, as sharp as his blade would soon be. "How could I not?"

"I’m afraid we must part ways, my dear companion. I shall await your presence upstairs."

Pantalone halted his colleague with a soft grasp of her arm. Then, low, "I have not caught eye with our esteemed guest . Is it truly a time to be late?"

Arlecchino peered around for an instant, and the disgruntled, out-of-place sound she made spoke enough. If one were to read minds, they’d be pleased to hear an harmonious ‘ Where is that damned Doctor?’

"I shall carry out my side of the ordeal," Arlecchino claimed without warranted hesitation. "I suggest you ready yourself, lest this troubles the plan." Then, a mocking titter. The Regrator had never expected their mutual dislike to hide too well anyway. "I do hope you can put up a fight."

The man huffed at the unconcerned attitude, and before he knew, the Knave was but another dancing figure within the ballroom. His fist subtly tightened under his cape, his steps bringing him to a nearby pillar where servants presented glittery champagne of sorts. He brought a glass to his lips, and confirmed with a wrinkle to his nose that it was nothing but garish decoration. Perhaps it could find a use in spilling over the Doctor’s head once the fool decided his presence was longed for enough. Just as the thought slithered away, a conspicuous blue head of hair materialized from the crowd. Wait, blue? The Regrator’s teeth gritted lightly as he navigated the crowd to cross paths with the wanted man. He stopped by his ear, not deigning to even look at him.

"Dear friend!" Not a sliver of warmth unveiled in Pantalone’s tone, no matter how much he tried. Arguably, he did not try at all. "May I know the reason for this belated appearance?"

"My, what a pleasure to see you here." To Pantalone’s surprise, there was no apologetic ring to his words, but rather a fierce annoyance. "I am afraid someone had forgotten to mention that a funeral had been organized for my esteemed friend, rendering my timely presence quite impossible." As Pantalone finally turned his eyes, he could see thin lips that were forcefully pursed into an unsightly smile. "Surely, you can be forgiving?"

Pantalone let out a sigh. It’d be unfair to hold a grudge since it seemed the mistake was already displeasing his colleague enough. Certainly, showing up as someone whose funeral had been held not long ago would raise suspicions more than ever, and the risk of having acquaintances in the crowd was too large to consider.

"Yes, of course," the banker ultimately muttered, both his tone and grip on the champagne flute softening. "Nevertheless, it shall not impact tonight’s enjoyment. I reckon you’ve brought the…"

As Pantalone took a step back to aptly continue the conversation, his eyes fell onto the Doctor’s attire. At the unexpected sight, his words trailed off somewhere on his papillae, next to some bitter ethanol – and a tad of his composure lost itself for an instant.

"You are…"

Dottore crossed his arms, rolling his shoulders and undoubtedly his eyes, although those rested hidden by a themed, sharp beaked mask – of course. "Not wearing that blue shirt you seem to hold a distaste for, indeed."

Indeed , and what a substitute! Instead of the dark navy shirt – which was in no way bad per se, Pantalone simply held a disappointment for such a lack of fashion diversity – Dottore bore a victorian-style black vest, tapestry motifs typically Fontainean, embellished by golden lace attributes spilling down the garment – it hugged at the Doctor’s waist considerably enough to make the Regrator’s eyes trail down more than once. Could it be considered a corset at this point? Alongside, his signature blue returned as a cravat spilling out of his upper chest just the right amount. 

" Who dressed you …?" Pantalone uttered. "How did you even procure such an ensemble? It’s quite unlike you to be… This presentable."

It was to be added that his hair was far less unkempt than usual, blue strands elegantly toppling down into silk ribbons – and, oh, he reeked of rich cologne. Pantalone had trouble associating whoever was in front of him to the usual scientist whose physical state depended so heavily on how well his experiments fared. This man looked appropriately dashing for a luxurious ball event, resulting in the banker’s frown – one of confusion, certainly, but subtly enrobed in awe.

 Dottore’s lips flattened to a straight line at the comment. "I’ll take it as the highest form of praise, coming from you. Do not worry, you look ravishing as well, Regrator." The hint of sarcasm barely concealed genuinity – but Pantalone objectively always looked ravishing. Although, if Dottore’s keen eyes had to speak, they’d recognize his colleague’s attire. One from a Snezhnayan inauguration, three months prior, to be exact. The Doctor narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he was missing something – he better have been, else this would refute Pantalone’s poor excuse for skipping the meeting. They’d have to speak of it later.

"I have the bottle right here."

The man swung the arm that held a coat, and retrieved the tapered liquor, handing it over in a semi-warm gesture. Pantalone surmounted the remnants of his surprise and took hold of the bottle, instead offering the earlier flute to the Doctor.

"There, finish this, we might as well re-use the glass."

With a compliant hum, Dottore tipped the stemware up and swallowed its content in a rudimentary gesture – it seemed the clothes truly didn't make the man. A grimace sprung on his face almost immediately. 

" This… ? This was–"

"Oh, I know," the Regrator offered a sly smile, retrieving the empty flute. "Thank you for your sacrifice."

Dottore threw him a dirty look, tongue tapping on his palate in displeasure. It stirred an almost endeared smile from the banker. 

"We'll catch up later, I believe. A swell dancing to you, friend."

With the words preceding an innate, impolite Dottore-sque groan, Pantalone took his turn to disappear amongst the faux royalty and strike up discussion with the target. The Doctor released a sigh, the crowd not making him quite at ease and numerous aftertastes still bitter in his throat. He discreetly waltzed to a corner, considering searching for Arlecchino, but quickly abandoning the thought and instead entertaining himself by judging people’s foolish theatrics. Their shallow gossipping, their fawning over anyone whose diamonds fell heavier than theirs. A few laughs, a few risible confessions of love. Hah. Truly a masquerade of peasants .

A handful of minutes passed, and the Doctor caught a glimpse of Pantalone’s unmistakable figure slow-dance across the marble floor, the Ambassador at his side – the latter holding the poison in one hand, in his other… 

Dottore scoffed, averting his gaze. The Regrator would truly allow anything for the sake of the Tsaritsa, it seemed – even the forceful and unruly scholar was well aware no hands were allowed on the banker’s waist, unless they wished to meet their fate through an expeditious guillotine. All Dottore could hold onto, watching them dance, was the promise of satisfaction ; the promise of seeing the Ambassador's lifeless corpse caged in wood in the back of the carriage while on their way back to the Palace, admiring his now so confident fingers fold onto themselves post-mortem, then laying him bare in on his operation table and clean off the sin of his undeserved proximity with the Ninth Harbinger.

A loud clink of glasses next to Dottore stirred him out of his reverie. 

He blinked. 

What strange thoughts he had just entertained. Since when was he holding such animosity towards that Ambassador – apart from his very life being a threat to the Fatui? The Doctor was certainly unconcerned with the sight of the dead by now, but never had he been particularly thrilled by it. What stood even more perplexing were his seeming care for the Regrator – Hah!  Who was he to speak an oath of worship to that devil of a man? 

It took Dottore a few moments too long before he realized he had started cackling out loud at how simply absurd it was. He received a few concerned stares hidden behind cowardly covers (not anything he hadn’t grown used to) but he figured to stop before he made himself too known. 

Observing the Regrator and his prey from afar spurred an uncomfortable feeling deep in his stomach. While he himself doubted it, he ended up attributing the sentiment to the anxiety of the plan's failure, had it started quite poorly already. He was not to question Pantalone's charming abilities though – from the Doctor's view, the man had been whispering in the Ambassador's ear for a dozen seconds by now, and it was only a matter of time before the latter fell at the banker’s feet in devotion. It went as such every time.

The imbalanced pair twirled around elegantly, and it fascinated the Doctor how Pantalone pretended not to lead every single step. By pure coincidence, the watcher and the watched’s gazes met. Even from afar, it was undeniable the violet eyes were laid on the Doctor – aimed as a rifle barrel between his two eyes, like the two of them were suddenly alone. Pantalone's forged business smile widened the slightest bit, but the pair turned once more, and disappeared. Dottore caught sight of them a bit later, making their way up the stairs to the chambers. The prior feeling strengthened but he did nothing of it, and began his countdown.

In five minutes, to a tick close, the Regrator would walk back down and they would leave inconspicuous. Tartaglia would quickly take care of the body, and Dottore could go back to wearing his old shirt again.

That was the plan. And yet… 

Five minutes morphed into ten. 

Worrying enough : the Regrator was usually most punctual. Dottore huffed. Perhaps his seamstress had taken another latency, and he was taking measurements besides the body.

Ten minutes stretched to fifteen. 

Something was wrong. 

Dottore's steps to the stairs were slow at first : if Pantalone were to come out now and see him out of his spot, he'd be in for more unnecessary scolding, how he couldn't trust the Regrator and know his role and so on… Still, the Doctor’s instincts ruled above all in a matter of danger. By the corner of his eyes, he noticed Arlecchino and Tartaglia seemingly perplexed – he dismissively waved at them, and his decision was made to take care of it alone.

Slow steps turned hasty towards the chamber corridor, and by the Tsaritsa was this castle of ludicrous size. Only the faint smell of blood could hint at his destination, while also confessing the crime had taken place. At what he presumed to be the correct room, smells of sweat and death a bit more prominent – alongside the faintest of Qingxin –, he knocked in a specific rhythm, one they had rehearsed (countless times!), yet one he messed up still, because ‘Il Dottore did not need to knock on doors’.

The width of the large baroque door didn’t suffice to muffle the exasperation in the voice that spoke behind. " Finally! Yes, hurry in."

A breeze of relief : Pantalone was well! And seemingly awaiting help, too, therefore the Doctor’s presence could only be applauded. The Second grasped the doorknob with his leather glove and turned it, careful there was no unwanted passerby behind him. He slithered in, carefully closing the door behind as a metallic smell crashed over him – one reminiscent of a mission well done. He turned around to face the room : extravagant and rich, a large bed where, at the sight, his earlier fantasy bloomed to life. Stabbed through and across the neck, though far more messily than he’d have expected, he was not one to complain.

"My, our dear Ambassador looks pretty dead." A poor attempt at hiding elation at the word. "I must ask, why then the delay in-...?"

Carmine eyes scanned the room in search of his colleague, but when they fell on him, the Doctor felt the air leave his lungs, like a mere collateral victim. Pantalone was… not as he had left the ballroom. Clothes practically torn and miserably swaying off his sides, hair undone pooling low on his shoulders, blood splattered on his face like a vulgar murderer caricature. But most, most of all -

"For Heaven’s sake, will you stop staring and help out instead? Hand over your coat, will you…?"

Stirred out of empty yet deafening thoughts, Dottore stumbled for his next few steps, barely able to accomplish the simple task. Seeing the Regrator body disappear beneath his garment, he could only stand there, astonished.

"Why are you… wearing this?" he finally spoke - but spoke would be an overstatement – what left his lips was a mumble at most. A pathetic one, Pantalone would dare add, if he was not busy sighing in plain frustration. 

"Can we have this talk later, Dottore? Fetch Childe for the body, I'll try to… clean up, somehow." 

Lingerie. 

The only word that Dottore's usual raucous mind managed to utter and repeat. Pantalone was wearing black lacy lingerie, hair undone, covered in blood – and the mere factual description was unbearably short of the sight itself.

 The scholar’s eyes should not linger the way they do, but the curves of the ever-cloaked arms, torso, hips, being revealed in a sensuous display and freckled with blood and sweat under the room’s dimmed lights – it’s sightly, bewitching. It’s lace, lace linked by straps (much like the Doctor’s harness) descending from the clavicle to the chest, from the chest to the navel, the navel to the sides, to the… Oh dear .

This was that forsaken Ambassador's sight as he drew his last breath?

 "Dottore."

Deadpan, sharp – but beneath lied a fluster quite unseen.

"...Yes."

The man tore his eyes away with great struggle, but they did not narrow, not even to blink. The leather around his hand had turned clammy, the doorknob suddenly capricious. The Doctor's mouth opened once more, and he almost made the grave mistake of looking back – instead, he shut his lips, then the door behind him.

With quick, embarrassingly wobbly steps, he rejoined Tartaglia and Arlecchino, explained in unfocused words the situation (perhaps omitting a detail) and watched them make their way back, a sudden hesitation pulling at his feet. There was such a weight to the knowledge that Pantalone, his dear banker and half-as-dear friend, was some place, currently, only Dottore's coat covering an Archon-damned attire… Why must the picture be carved inside his eyelids, yet already too blurry? To leave him torn between cursing himself to even have looked, and not to have looked nearly enough? He scoffed – it mattered not, his mission was more important than this . 

And yet, as he made his way back with some latency, he could not bite back the hitch of his breath as the realization hit him, as to exactly why the Regrator’s evening outfit had not been new. And ultimately, where the true need for measurements had lied. It was in a dumbfounded state that Arlecchino found the scientist a handful of seconds later, halted half up the stairs and staring at the golden railing. She made quick work of whispering in his ear, a string of words he didn’t quite piece together, but that conclusively meant they were to leave. 

—

Blue strands swayed from side to side at each new stone disturbing the carriage’s wheels. The repetitive pattern of street lamps had long disappeared, leaving way to the moon alone to light up the path home. It would take the night to return, and it seemed the ginger who snored next to the Doctor had well understood it. Dottore spared a meaningless glance at him, before his eyes trailed to the back of their vehicle. As he had foreseen, an oak box squeaked at every few turns, the material inside soaking enough to prevent it from tinting maroon and leaving a treacherous trail behind. They’d get suspicions eventually, if ever at all, but a lost letter to the Fatui wouldn’t be unheard of, nor would be a hundred.

The job was done. Dottore shivered lightly, missing the fur that usually prevented shivers to crawl down his spine.

—

It was once the morning dew had already frozen that the horses halted their steps on the snowy cobblestone path. Dottore’s boots made its encounter with a soft sound, before the coachman could even announce their arrival. He had the displeasure to hear some grunts from his carriage mate, as he stepped away, irked. An evidence, that he had not closed his eyes in the slightest – the phantom of an aggravating divine sight blurring into focus at every attempt to drift off. All he longed for now was to hold the Ambassador’s body between his hands to have some sort of distraction ; gouge out the eyes and wipe their retinas clean, scrape off his fingers of the prints, then hell, throw it away, not even deserving to be kept for parts. Though before any of that was possible, he had to assist the dreadful meeting they were all in for.

It was the first time Dottore would see Pantalone after the incident. Evidently, this one had changed to his typical attire, and bore a blank face that did not even attempt to uphold his customary, albeit abhorrently fake, gentle smile. The four Harbingers involved soon gathered around the ivory table, and their leader joined them promptly.

"I have been made aware of the events," Pierro began, his tone as solemn as ever. "May anyone explain why it unfolded so poorly?"

Heaven forbid the man congratulated them, but they knew better than to expect as such. Had one of them passed, he’d have started the meeting the same way.

"Let me do the honors," Pantalone’s voice rose, catching Dottore’s attention. Carmine eyes watched the many-ringed hands as they entwined tightly. "While the operation earned its success, I’d appreciate we do not glance over the grotesque mistakes that have been made. To begin the dreadful night, the Doctor, " a deliberate sting to the word, " - arrived with unannounced latency, bringing a-"

"For my defense," Dottore spoke, loud enough to cover his colleague’s plaints. "No one had informed me that the man-"

" Shut it. " Loud, sharp, vehement – Dottore had never heard the banker speak in such intensity before, at least not in his direction, which spoke loud when they had dabbled in mutual death threats. " You," pointed, accusatory, like they were suddenly alone, once again. "You arrived late , bringing alongside you a so-called poison of dreadful inefficiency." Dottore’s lips turned downwards. He could reckon his actions might not have been on par, but to begin criticizing his alchemy was different – he wanted to demand Pantalone to elaborate, but the earlier words' sharpness still stung him. " - all the while I was alone with this brute of an Ambassador, who stood far too awake and conscious for me to act as quickly as I was demanded."

Ah, so there was the way he proposed the facts ; the Doctor, responsible for all.

"And the blame is to be put on me?" the accused scoffed, cocking his head. "I was not given proper instructions for the desired effect of the poison. You would’ve laughed less if he tumbled down right after you’d offered the glass."

"The only time Gladieux felt a tinge of weakness was when my knife lodged in his throat, Doctor ." Then, a titter. Dangerous. "Perhaps you’d allow me to reiterate?"

" You -!"

"Doctor." Pierro intervened, "Own your mistakes and let us move on."

" My mistakes? " Dottore turned back to his impassible assailant, incredulous. He noticed the ringed fingers had loosened. Pantalone knew he had won. How infuriating. "How was I to know how long you would discuss? How long you would dance ? Must I bow to you in apology for giving you margin ?!"

"That's enough." Pierro shut, voice forcing silence to fall upon the room. "Gladieux is dead, let us keep our energy for later missions. You are all dismissed. Good job, Arlecchino, Tartaglia."

A brief answer echoed. "Thank you, sir."

Dottore’s groan echoed louder.

— 

What followed was a dreadful, dreadful day. Anyone who dared cross paths with the Doctor ended up shrouded in his palpable attitude, even as he remained in the confines of his lab. The poor assistants watched every twitch of his hands like a threat to their lives – and had to assist to a particularly gruesome dissection, from which the man stormed off half way through, throwing visceras over his shoulder and slapping his glove into a passerby’s face. As the afternoon struck, he shut himself in his office with the strict order to deny any presence.

Inside, he’d discarded work to instead tinker with Upsilon, wipe away his ability to smile or even answer to anyone but him and other segments. The clinks and turns of his screwdrivers and wrenches put him at ease, at last, and he could get lost in the repetitive motions to drown away t-

"I believe this to be yours."

Dottore startled, head snapping to his doorway. His eyes first met a familiar fur, then floated to its displeasing coat-hanger, also happening to be his colleague. Yet why did the sight not aggravate him as much as it deserved?

"Quite the nerves you have, bringing this yourself." The Doctor marched towards the man and retrieved the coat with a brusque grasp, the movement of it releasing into the air a familiar floral and vinous scent. Dottore cursed to himself – the sweet aroma had no right having any effect on him, not right now. "I risk not thanking you. "

"Now, now, you seem quite on edge." Pantalone said, his demeanor unrecognizable from the morning. Tranquil, casual, not holding nearly as much regret as he should – ah, regret? Who was the Doctor kidding? "Are you not used to our little banter by now?"

The scoff Dottore let out was bordering on theatrical. " Our banter, " he repeated slowly, "usually involves us . What good is twisting the truth to humiliate me in front of others?"

"No truths were twisted." The banker replied, hiding behind a false wall of hurt. "Perhaps amplified under anger, I’ll admit, but you have to understand my situation was far from pleasant."

"What situation ?"

"Tsk." In a flash, the coldness returned. "I knew you apathetic to others, but to this extent? I had to fight off a man, alone, the word brute had only begun to describe him. This man tore my clothes, pinned me to a bed, this damned-" Pantalone paused, suppressing foul words from his tongue before taking a deep breath. "Which brought us to your arrival, though not much better I’d say. The way you stood there, gawking… It was inherently perverted . I would not have been surprised had you started drooling."

"Hah! Your delusions speak again, Regrator." Dottore laughed, but the memory etched behind his eyelids didn't make his words any convincing. "Cease your accusations of lasciviousness, I have restraints. I was merely in awe that a man such as you would present this way. What is your excuse this time?"

Pantalone hummed, an instant of contemplation.

"Perhaps I simply indulge in coquetry. Is it so wrong to wish to be desired?” Provoking eyes met the Doctor's, and the banker sighed. “Ah, or perhaps I wished to give the poor man a nice last view."

Dottore scoffed, but Pantalone found in his body language exactly what he'd been looking for. A hinted, sweet jealousy .

"Whatever the case is,” the scholar dismissed, “I'd refrain from pretending to know how I feel and what I think. It’s impossibly arrogant, even for you."

"Your mask hides so little, are you aware?" Pantalone teased. His body approached, accompanied by the clack of heels. "You're a fool if you think I need it removed to see everything of you. I know where your eyes trail, because I know you . Just as I know your eyes were not on my face, this meeting."

Silence. Such a rare, precious, thrilling sound coming from Dottore.

"Hm?" Pantalone continued, tilting his head. "I dare not imagine where your brilliant mind wandered." Sarcasm dripped off his every word, but he took a step closer, and the silence fell heavier. The man raised a hand and brought it closer to the Doctor's face – utterly lost as to what the banker had in mind, the other gripped the wrist in reflex. To his dismay, he had to admit the Regrator's mask was far more effective than his own. 

Pantalone leaned in.

 "You still think of it, do you not? "

A whisper, a question. Rhetorical.

"When I spoke to Pierro, where were your eyes? Tracing the shape of it, with the remnants of your memory? When I spoke of your poison, were you remembering the lace pattern, attributing it back to my form? Were you wondering if I wore it still?" 

Oh, how Dottore wished to oppose him. But even then, even now, he could only lie so much, only despise so much how confident the Ninth was in his every word. How confident, and how right.

"You wondered, but of course, I was not. It was tainted." With the alluring caress of the Regrator’s breath so close to him, the Doctor dared not move. "Fortunately, I have wonderful assistants, Dottore. Wonderful ones. So I can feel it cling to my form again."

Dottore released the wrist, and, with it, a breath.

"Oh?" Pantalone cooed. "And why that motion? Certainly not disgust, I know so much. Is this your so-called restraint?" As if the Doctor could still breathe, Pantalone narrowed the gap between them – in a way that, humiliatingly so, made the scholar flinch. “I know you, Dottore. You get so easily devoted. Then, from your devotion blooms obsessiveness. So be it, I’ll give you what you so desire, if only to satisfy your hunger for it. Open my coat, Dottore." 

‘No’, the other man thought, not loud enough to turn to words. As much as he’d wished to deny the other man, he could not deny the truth : there was no unseeing what he had seen, just as there was no quenching his longing for it. He gave in, alongside sacrificing the right for Pantalone to call him perverted, an animal, anything he so pleased. Dottore silently gulped.

Hence the curtains opened, pulled by hesitant hands, abashed by the thought that whatever laid beyond was not meant for the audience that he was. Where had his pride gone? Had it left apace with his breath at the first dispersal of shadow, etching the lace in its departure, like a stencil to a piece of art? Despite himself, he shivered at the sight. So close, so personal, for only – at this instant – his eyes to see.

As he was stripped of the coat inch by inch, Pantalone did not once avert his gaze. Only a man such as him could hold complete control while being undressed by another – or so he thought. What a liar he’d be if he claimed the gentle touches did not make an unexpected warm feeling rise within him. The sight of The Doctor, out of anyone, so delicate and admirative, held such a sweet-tasting irony. Pantalone knew more than well this sort of worship was only ever meant for the various ruin machines that laid, dead but adored, in his many facilities, not ever for another human. And yet… 

While the banker knew himself – his flesh – beautiful, Dottore’s touch rendered him… More. It was a coy touch, beyond admiration. A believer to a divinity, baring proof of faith, of unspoken devotion. Dottore had never held such care with him, why was it that now, it layed clear as day?

As the coat was discarded, rough fingertips gently slid to sides, but before they could reach, Pantalone took hold of a wrist. Dottore stopped sharp – it was evident he believed to have misstepped, but the banker let out a soft hum. With his other hand, he tugged at the tips of the gloves, a few on each finger, before denuding the hand beneath : scarred, calloused, traced by chemicals, riddled with a slight tremble. Pantalone guided the hand to his waist, where the thin lace traced intricate gothic patterns onto his ecclesiastical form. No hands were ever allowed on the Regrator’s waist, but here, they were… welcomed.

Pantalone looked up. Unlike what he had expected, Dottore’s other hand did not join in to cup his waist :  instead, it stalked down the Regrator’s opposite arm in a graze, took the hand, and slightly raised it. In his puzzlement, he let it happen, and soon he was held on one side, his other arm higher in the air. Then, Dottore smiled, and he took a step.

"...What are you doing?" Pantalone questioned in a wondering breath, before it dawned all but an instant later. The way their bodies stood close, began swaying delicately in rhythmic motions… They were dancing. Just like he had during the ball, with the Ambassador. Back when his eyes crossed Dottore’s, foreign to the crowd, and wished he could dance with him instead. It’d have been for naught but a mockery, for the fatuity of the act – but now the foolish fantasy had fulfilled, and they swayed against the tiles of the Doctor’s office.

It was risible, the deaf clinks of their boots, coordinated to languid, lazy back and forths. So risible, in fact, that Pantalone started to laugh. Earnest, undeniably soft – not restrained by a need for elegance, for seductiveness, for anything. A sound so bare and unadulterated that even he was surprised by it, for just an instant, before he forgot, and lost himself to the imprecise steps. 

—

The moon had, per its habit, dawned its light upon the castle. Sharp-edged lines inviting themselves through curtains, bathing all of it in a merciless ice blue tint – and the two men slid between them, gleaming in light for an instant, then disappearing where even the moon could not see them. 

Breaking the solemn silence, Pantalone leaned in. "Are you done with this little masquerade of yours, Doctor?"

"Why that question?" the man replied with amusement, steps never halting. He leaned in closer as well, as though the room was bustling with Fontaine's lovers. "Do you wish for it to end?"

Pantalone laughed, softer, his brows drawing together.

"You must understand my surprise. I offered you my body, but now, we're dancing." 

Dottore grinned. "We are."

Something odd bloomed in Pantalone's chest. From the performance to their exchange, his earlier anguish had long dissipated to yield place for impromptu serenity. They were . Perhaps no more words were needed, perhaps the unspoken feeling he craved was quenched by them stumbling every now and then, giggling at it, then bringing each other closer. 

It kept on, step after step, getting intoxicated on absurdity and gentle grazes. The hand had never once left the waist, Pantalone's own rested on Dottore's shoulder, their arm straight and joined by interlaced fingers at the end, leading the dance on. 

Dottore's ochre lantern shone a warmer light onto them, whenever they passed near – and Pantalone found himself quite fond of the saturation it brought, so he paused, tugging at the arm slightly and appreciating the way the Doctor obliged in his interruption. 

"What are you thinking about?" Pantalone asked, taking in slow breaths, examining the halved face.

"How ravishing you look, Regrator. As you always do." 

On the brink of blasphemy to use a word as feeble, while watching the way the lingerie clung to his every form to perfection. Otherworldly, ethereal, the epitome of a god's artistry, perhaps, would be a better fit, but the Doctor still hid some pride underneath his sharp grin.

Pantalone hummed. "You look decent, even in that shirt of yours."

Dottore let out a little irritated groan, which made the curve of Pantalone's lips deepen. Their arms had slowly lowered back to their hips, yet stayed entwined. How absurd : it looked as if they were holding hands. 

"No need for a growl, Doctor. Perhaps I don't loathe it nearly as much as I show," he admitted, but his eyes were not on the shirt. Instead, they trickled down Dottore's mask ornaments, from the golden to the navy, from the broken white to the gray, to the beak. They, however, ended their course where lips parted in a smug smile underneath. 

"May I?"

The words hung in the air, lacking the acceptance Pantalone had expected at once. His index finger remained lonely, under said beak. A constant reminder of his request, but pliant, waiting under the expectation of consent. Dottore's smile faded. 

Pantalone had laid his eyes onto the scientist's bare face long ago, but they remembered the time in regrets. Conversations had turned sour, there had been no apologies – of course not, not with them. But all was unrelated to the revelation, and not once had Pantalone spoken illy of the face, nor thought the way either. Strongly shaped and scarred, is how he remembered it, but the unreliable blur of memories made him long to see it once more.  

Dottore's hand slipped away from their intertwined stance, and Pantalone felt something ugly in the pits of his stomach. Nonetheless, he let their hands separate, the warmth within his palm disappearing all too quick. Curiously, instead of pulling away, Dottore's body stayed still, his other hand still clasped on Pantalone's waist. 

The hand he retrieved turned out to aim for the mask, curving around the surface in a slow motion that still allowed leeway for a last-moment refusal. A deaf sound rose. Dislodged. Pantalone took back his index, and watched with a betraying smile. Bare once more, the Doctor's face had never looked better than with the lantern flickering against the features. Across his aquiline nose drifted a long scar brimmed with history, accompanied by a handful of others : all of which, almost artistically, lead the gaze to the main show. 

"I should never allow you to wear a mask," Pantalone uttered. Under the amber of the lantern, the Doctor’s crimson eyes shone as fire, barely figurative when burning under Pantalone’s own. 

"Allow ?" Dottore raised his brow, the banker not missing the way his face stretched slightly, showing off a new spectacle in of itself. Was it any rational to admire every intricacy this way? Not in the slightest, though Pantalone had always been more poetry than rationality – but the Doctor was not pretty, not to be compared to a flower or a sunset. He was crude and rash and unforgiving, he looked exactly how he spoke, how he acted, how he felt. 

Altogether, so dangerously charming.

In his eyes, so seldom exposed, sheened vulnerability. The vulnerability of not just being seen, but watched, scrutinized, admired. Sentiment that was not there when they first landed on Pantalone’s face months prior, where they burned with what the banker believed to be constant disdain, rage, something more profound he dared not speak. 

"I presume the masquerade is drawing to a close. Has the time come for you to lodge your knife in my throat?" Dottore taunted.

Without missing a beat, Pantalone huffed. "Tempting." Playfully, his finger rose to the Doctor’s jugular, and the nail scraped ever so lightly. An intimate threat, one that broadened Dottore’s smile. "But I’m afraid I let my guard down, and stand here unarmed."

"How reckless," The Doctor remarked low as he leaned in nearer, his breath a gentle graze underneath Pantalone’s ear. The latter was pleased at the reciprocity ; exchanging menaces, yes, the most intimate there was, that there had ever been between them. Bordering on flagrant flirtation, Pantalone tilted his head to bare his neck and return the closeness. 

How unusual, how thrilling, to be so close to the Doctor. To feel his hand glide down the banker’s waist to cup his hip, where his iliac crest’s descent marked the end of the lace, and where pristine pale skin met with said enticed hand. They could not dance forever, but Pantalone was not disappointed. For once that he felt tension thicken, it did not vex or bore him as it would always do – but to compare the Doctor to any other man was a graceless mistake to begin with. 

"The night has fallen, Doctor."

"The night?" Dottore raised a brow. A second prior, he had seemed lost in a trance by the sight before him. " What of it?"

"Why, I'd like to spend it with you," Pantalone muttered against his lips.

Dottore let out a single breath, mouth slightly parted as his eyes fell to Pantalone’s. Violet met blood, and the curtain to another act opened. Pantalone shattered the hesitation, leaning in closer and bringing his lips to the Doctor’s softly, slowly, unmoving as everything set into place. The sound of a kiss, discreet but oh-so-clear, as it dawned on them. After the threshold was passed, Pantalone kept going as naturally as he always had, Dottore letting himself be led, tilting his head, leaning closer. It was tantalizing, the way they pushed, pulled, then pushed closer, closer still. Dottore felt a soft sound leave his lips, and before he knew, both his hands were bringing Pantalone’s waist closer to him. The Doctor sighed, then took the breath back through his nose – alongside, the sweet, sweet smell of warm Qingxin.

Pantalone held the Doctor’s every sense captive. His soft but firm lips, the arms around his neck, his own hums of contentment as they embraced. Neither of them caught the moment they started moving by the throes of their passion, gentle steps in one’s direction, causing them both to smile into their kiss. The stride somehow led them to the couch in Dottore’s office, one next to a large bookshelf of his. Upon the hundreds of textbooks, manuscripts and other monographs that resided there, none could have warned him or even begun to describe the surges of his heart in this idyllic, irrational sense. 

 Perhaps it was on his own – or perhaps it was aided by a gentle push from the banker – but Dottore stumbled onto the couch, a not-so-grateful fall that he only vaguely saved by, reluctantly, removing a hand from Pantalone’s waist to brace himself. They broke apart for a moment, Dottore looking up at the banker as he glowed from the moon’s arctic blue and the lantern, which neared its last breath. The Doctor barely had time to take in one of his own before Pantalone climbed onto him and resumed their act. Their breathing grew heavier just as the kiss grew more insistent, Dottore finding himself unable to do anything but utterly melt under every angelic touch of the other. Then, they parted – finally, too soon.

Eyes met eyes, they exchanged soft pants and awed looks. Against the nocturnal silence, Pantalone’s voice rose like a prayer.

"Would you believe me," a bemused smile fell to his parted lips, "were I to tell you your mouth still reeks of that horrid champagne?" 

Ironically, the remark fueled Dottore’s incentive. He caught the Regrator’s lips with vacated coyness, his tongue intruding the other’s mouth as he thrusted in every scintilla of ethanol left on his palate. A payback of sorts, all too fitting for the banker. 

Far from Pantalone to back away at the revenge, though –  he had anticipated the Doctor to smell and taste of hospitals and detergent, but their colognes still hovered in the air around them, almost rendering the ambiance romantic if only Dottore wasn’t such a brute at Fontainean kissing. Pantalone had to take grasp of the man’s hair, pulling him away and forcing his head to tilt back to the couch behind. 

The Regrator could only watch the parted lips widen into a large idiotic grin, the bright carmine eyes that barely eclipsed unquellable hunger. He would beg for more elegance, more gentility to it all, but he knew they’d never paint a beautiful picture – at least not now, not when Dottore looked up at him this way.

Instead, he gave in. Letting his own hunger shine through, as raw and unsupervised as his laughter had been. His heart begged for the one man who saw him as more than flesh and gold, to hold him closer like a lover would, if they could ever dare call each other so. Dottore did, without being asked to : his palms wide and imposing yet never rough, the heat they marked onto Pantalone fueling his desire.

They kissed harder, moans unseparated from one another, the night would be long. Pantalone shifted their bodies, Dottore fell, now lying down on the couch without a breath to spare. As Pantalone parted, closely avoiding asphyxia by the Doctor's estimate, he leaned away with a long inspiration. Dottore watched in wonder as the banker's back arched, how his chest heaved under the lace. His eyes trailed down – of course, they did – and his sharp fangs showed again. 

It was true that Pantalone's attire did little to keep his dignity, but he believed to be far past the need to be prude. With violet daggers pointing down at the other man, he ground his hips. Slowly, they undulated to spell out obscenities on the crotch below, making Dottore bare his throat in a sigh to the heavens. 

Of course, it'd lead to this, Pantalone thought, but his breaths held no exasperation. The earlier warm feeling only grew into what he assumed deliberate intimacy must have felt like. He wanted this. At the newfound repetitive movement, Dottore let out a little grunt. Yes , he wanted this. He dragged his hips down again, as if savoring every inch of friction – until a tingle climbed up his spine.

"Regrator…" Dottore breathed, unusually quiet. Despite being no more than a mutter, his voice held a throaty quality that turned it rasp – and perhaps hearing his own title spoken like this had Pantalone in more of a trance than he'd admit. 

Breaths were rendered to nothing but shaky exhales, and Dottore rolled his hips upward, as an admission of himself. The man on top indulged in their silent begging, hands now falling to the Doctor's belt, sliding the leather around with a hiss, buckles clanking against one another. A hand held Dottore's stomach down, slipping off the belt, pliant, and the strap rested in Pantalone's hands. He curled it around one – perhaps a habit, perhaps a threat, most certainly a reminder of where their power stood now. 

It was getting progressively arduous to hide behind pretension and vanity : Pantalone felt the Doctor grow hard under him, the cloth separating them reduced to an excuse of modesty. Pantalone lifted his hips, and stripped the trousers off beneath him. With nimble fingers, he teased at the Doctor's navel, splaying hands apart under his shirt and down his sides. Claiming, was it, a traveler to overseas virgin lands. Pantalone snickered at the thought. Surely not… But the thought prospered, almost enough for him to say something. 

Dottore shivered at the touch, but did not miss the amusement dancing in the other’s eyes. He calibrated his breathing, brows raised.

"What is it? Is my state humorous?"

"It's endearing," Pantalone said calmly. "Awfully so." 

Ah, the danger of honesty. One Pantalone seemingly forgot as he bared all of himself. His body to his laugh, his hunger to his eyes. Long lashed, amethyst slits that narrowed at the Doctor’s next words.

"Take this as you will,” a slow inhale,  “It's a shame you washed off."

"...Pardon me?"

"Allow me apathy this time, but… I must say, the drape of blood suited you grandly." Dottore’s hands hovered, an inch away from the skin, floating as a veil down the torso. "It painted a sight, dare I say, more erotic than your garment. If only it hadn’t been from that repugnant man’s viscera."

Delicate lips curled up at the words – a pause was marked, then, unannounced, Pantalone bent back down and locked his smile with the Doctor’s. This one would be the last to refuse the gesture, so he closed his eyes and enjoyed the embrace. He felt his bare hand being lifted, and while he expected another tender touch, his palm was widened into the frisk air. 

Suddenly, a sharp stinging pain furrowed at the skin.

Dottore recoiled, a guttural groan leaving his throat as he watched Pantalone lean back with a complacent look. Soon, crimson bloomed into view, as he realized that in his palm had been carved a perfect straight line, from which blood flowed generously. It trickled down, landing imperfect drops onto the pallor of Pantalone’s thigh. 

"Better?"

"...You…" Dottore scoffed, caught by surprise, to Pantalone's true delight. "...You claimed yourself unarmed."

"Aren't you so reckless, to believe my every word?"

Indeed, a dagger rested culpably in the banker’s hand, gold ornaments all too luxuriant for Dottore to have missed. Though he lacked the time to ponder, his imbrued hand came to touch, palm flat, the Regrator’s stomach. It maneuvered higher, leaving behind it an impure vermillion trail that shook Dottore’s chest. If he had laid short of breath before, the sight now exhausted his lungs – he whispered a curse in his maternal tongue, ignoring the stinging ache to instead further paint the man in cherry and wine. 

The hand tightened, fingers digging into the sullied skin – Pantalone watched, amused, the glassy eyes and their large pupils. The Doctor was beyond mesmerized. Judging a single hand not to be enough, Pantalone’s dainty fingers cupped the second, Dottore most pliant, if not eager, for the carving of the blade. And so, the silence welcomed a hiss, a grunt, a sigh. Trickling from the palm to his wrist and down his arm, a fresh red soon met the untainted paleness. 

"Beautiful," Dottore breathed in wonder – perhaps more than once –, hands sealing and varnishing the sculpture that was Pantalone, with his own cruor no less. Covered in Dottore’s touch, blood and flattery, the banker’s head swam pleasantly, and his hips resumed their slow drag, feeling nails against the tender of his sides. The roll of his pelvis stole a couple shallow breaths from below, his own body begging just as much as Dottore’s. In a rush of desire, Pantalone finally bared the other of his underwear, sliding the hard length out and giving it a feather touch that drew a groan. 

"So vulnerable like this, Doctor…" the banker hummed, tracing the curve in an overt admiration. His thumb passed on the slit teasingly, eliciting a soft moan – and perhaps he could do just that for the whole of the night. The lantern had run out by now, but the moonlight was enough, more than enough to notice the pleasure had drowned the pain away from Dottore’s face, more than enough to build in Pantalone a desire to amplify it, more, more, make the other man lose himself completely. 

He grasped one of the Doctor’s bloodsoaked hands and brought it down upon the scientist himself, a varnish to his own body this time around. With a slight flinch to his muscles (which Pantalone did not miss, and rather reveled in), Dottore wrapped his scarred hand around his own shaft, letting his blood slicken the motions. His bottom lip now laid trapped under a sharp fang, and if with enough pressure, it would add taste into the senses affected by the liquid copper. 

Dottore kept jerking himself with slow strokes, little spasms climbed from his arms to his chest – both pain and pleasure, interchangeably. As long as his half-mechanical heart would beat and send blood to his fingertips, the consistent flow would not cease so soon. Relieving, in a way, for Dottore only grew more excited the more blood poured out, as it trickled intricate paths between his thighs. The sight was as obscene as it was alluring. 

Once he deemed it sufficient, Pantalone batted Dottore's hand away. The banker had slid the lace off of his ensanguined thighs, now hovering, in his evermore superiority, over the Doctor. They locked eyes. 

"Please," Dottore whispered, hoarse voice heavy with depravity. To his delight, Pantalone knew better than to deny the Doctor after a plea so unheard. He propped a hand to the couch, the other holding Dottore’s cock and angling it properly – then, Pantalone slowly began his descent. His turn arrived to softly hiss in the air, tilting his head in focus and making his every breath count. How sinful was the feeling that overtook him, watching the Doctor in craving as they slowly became one – the way the same breath hitched multiple times, only to result in a moan barely audible. The Doctor was beautiful like this. For the Regrator to take, to claim, to own, to reign over entirely. To hold in his hands the throes of desire and pleasure, just like he’d always hold, with both distaste and greed, the gold and luxe of the world.

An instant passed, and Pantalone’s skin finally pressed against the man below. 

"Heavens…" he breathed out, his Adam’s apple rising, a drop of sweat cradling down his neck. His hands gently traced up the Doctor’s abdomen as his muscles rippled. His eagerness burned – of course it did – but the sensation went far beyond mere pain ; ache and soreness fueled his lust, for once that he held choice over it. Pantalone brushed the thought away, his entire focus back to Dottore. The man’s hands were twitching on both the banker’s thighs, his eyes hidden behind light blue curtains that fluttered every passing moment. Pantalone rolled his hips, barely lifting them just to grind back down, soon enough installing a modest rhythm that allowed him to get used to the thickness. Under him, Dottore groaned a beautiful, pitiful sound.

With the breaths he had left, Pantalone chuckled. "Not such a loud mouth anymore, dear Doctor, are you?" 

As if awoken from a reverie, the Doctor’s eyes drifted open. He huffed. 

"Are words…" A pant. "...Truly necessary, now?"

Pantalone shook his head, amusement dancing on his tongue. Words… Not quite what he had meant.

"Of course. How else should I know if you’re enjoying it?"

Pantalone’s eyes rested as keen as his dagger ; when statements were to spill from Dottore’s mouth again, the banker raised his hips and ground them down deeper. At once, the Doctor’s syllables melted into a louder groan. As soon as its melody vanished into the air, Pantalone longed for its return.

"Bastard. " Dottore whispered between teeth, learning all too fast to keep his voice down. Pantalone’s sigh braided disappointment and glee.

Eyes opened anew, the Doctor admired once more the glorious sight before him. Hands went to hold the moving waist again, light enough not to disturb the cadenced motion, yet tight enough to hint at the same possessive desire Pantalone displayed. Then, tighter. Tighter, so that by digging his heels into the couch, Dottore could begin to thrust up as he brought Pantalone down.

"A-ah… " the banker let out, his back arching at the surprising rise in intensity. He allowed his body to melt into the thrusts, soft gasps entwined with moans as he felt Dottore move deeper. 

"Not so talkative either, Regrator."

Pantalone clicked his tongue in fleeting disapproval, eyeing the grin below. In an attempt to fight back, he snapped his hips down – what it resulted in, however, was for the Doctor's tip to ram straight into his prostate.

"Oh God- "

Pleasure rode his every nerve, from his insides to the pads of his fingertips. All the while, a satisfied cackle resonated in his ears. Dottore's hands tightened further, an irrefutable proof of his strength as Pantalone's movements were forced to halt. With uncanny precision, Dottore snapped his hips up, cock pressing mercilessly on the sweet spot once more. Pantalone felt all composure and control threaten to slip away.

As a new, harsher rhythm set itself up, both men lost themselves to the tender carnal pleasures. Blood at the surface of Pantalone's skin began to dry, crimson flakes and dust raining upon their original owner – yet far from Dottore to mind, no : he dug the nail of his thumb further in, scraping off the stale blood to carve out, in his indulgence, the first letter of his name. His lips stretched to a wide grin at the sight of his signature, head tilting back in pleasure as he groaned once more. A compromise of mutual possession. It felt exhilarating. 

Lewd sounds filled the air ; from skin to skin and moans to cries, they handpainted a canvas of debauchery. Within the holy grounds that stood imperial in the snow of the land, under the sleeping eyes of their deity, Goddess of Love, lathered in sweat and blood : they chased a feeling so pure and human that everything else disappeared. Dottore’s hands seeped their flowing cries onto the banker, Pantalone moaned at every deep, fast thrust, every slow roll that kneaded his insides. A decline to beauty against the charring heat of lust, passion, yearning. A fair exchange. A fair exchange. 

"Dottore… Oh my God…"

A breathless, deep laugh rose from below, as if from the depths of the Abyss – an antonym to their ascension. It appeared the Doctor had turned delirious from the pleasure, only grunts bordering on animalistic rose from his throat, his grip on Pantalone’s hips drawing fresh blood. From Dottore’s own wound? From the skin below? Futile to think about, as was everything else beyond them.

Dottore tried to speak, to form words of praise and – he’d be damned – worship, but naught came out, if pleas, begs, and of course, Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone. The prayer would be enough, as he felt a beautiful, divine warmth cradle his insides. The Regrator’s nails scraped the skin of Dottore's stomach, where sweat and precum from Pantalone’s own neediness had pooled lewdly.

It was too much. 

"Zandik–" Pantalone breathed out a moan, a cry to his ecstasy. He buried the Doctor deeper and arched his back, his orgasm’s euphoria bathing him in the heavens. Light, oh so light  – his breath caught, he shuddered, for a good few seconds there was nothing but white noise and the ghost feeling of Dottore’s touch. 

Dottore. The banker felt him still, his cock still pressed against the sensitive bundle of nerves, nudging it indolently to send jolts of electricity up his spine. 

"Mmnh –" Pantalone tensed at the stimulation, letting out soft sounds that mixed  unease and the remnants of his prior bliss. Beneath his palms, Dottore heaved.

"Zandik," he spoke once more, oh so tender, as he bent forward and left gentle kisses on the corner of the agape mouth. Not long after, Dottore came with a weak dragged-out groan, eyes shut – almost too calm, too discreet for a man like him. Pantalone kept kissing his skin.

"...Perfect. " 

Spoken like a breeze, a word meant for all and for nothing at once. Pantalone sang a long sigh, depleted of all strength but woven in a sudden affection. He let his weight topple over, breathing slowly as the mechanical heart hammered under him, soon turning into a soothing buzz to his ears. A hand went to rest on his shoulder, perhaps an anchor, perhaps an affectionate gesture, all the more contrasted with the dry claret on the palm. The chill air of the office rid his back of the sweat – everything was calm, saccharine, and undeniably a little crass, but he was already drifting off to sleep before he could care.

—

Pantalone blinked, and the sun had risen. Slowly, memories of the night prior resurfaced, just as his eyes blurred into focus. Where was he? His hand fetched left, right, no sign of anyone but him. He let out a long sigh. There was little point in lamenting, so he rose, silk brushing against his skin. Silk. 

"Hm?"

Sat onto the bed, hair cascading down his shoulders, Pantalone found himself in his usual sleeping robe, in his own quarters no less. Curious. Sliding the ribbon at his waist open, the silk pooled to his thighs. His stomach presented its usual immaculacy, not a drop of blood or other fluids to be seen – nor the lace, either. The banker frowned, reaching out to grab the glasses on his nightstand. He couldn’t have possibly dreamed all of that now, could he? 

As he settled the glasses on his nose, he noticed a piece of paper laid neatly on the table. Bringing the note closer, the soft, lingering scent of the Doctor swayed in the air. His lips curled upwards. The writing was far more decipherable than usual. A special care taken, perhaps.

"Capitano called for a meeting at 9–"

Ah! Pantalone figured the sun was a little too risen.

"...But you refuse to wake up. I’ll take notes and come by. 

I changed you. I hope it’s acceptable."

Then, Pantalone huffed, cheeks losing their pallor for a reddish hue. 

The next words were a little further down, as if they’d been hesitated upon, but the bottom of the note was torn away – though the top of a letter peeked. Was it an i, an l? Pantalone smiled. Perhaps the mystery was for the better.