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He looks at himself in the mirror and barely recognizes the man staring back. He is very surprised to see himself without the dark circles under his eyes caused by long hours of work. And he is still not used to seeing the same face, which has remained unchanged for several decades now.
The doctor always looked after his well-being....
He looks at Dottore.
He is. Seventy-nine.
Frowns of annoyance and dark, red eyes stare back at him.
His hair is grey with a blue tinge, thinning slightly at the crown.
Dottore doesn't talk about it. Dottore, in fact, seems determined to actively avoid talking about it. When Pantalone tries to broach the subject, Dottore changes it with compulsive precision.
But Dottore comes to him anyway. Tonight, like every night this week, The Doctor arrives at Regrator's apartment. He is currently sitting in a large, dark armchair.
There is always a pungent smell trailing behind the old man, but Pantalone finds it quite invigorating. It is something chemical, something probably sweet, but Pantalone does not attach much importance to the fact that this initial sweetness is more characteristic of corpses, rather than biscuits. There's a stain on his collar that might be blood or.... might be anything worse.
It’s a good thing Zandik’s hair is dry. It looks as though he hasn’t washed it for several days. His clothes are wrinkled. And there's grey stubble on his jaw because he shaved around the same time as the last time he touched the water.
His hands are neatly folded one on top of the other. And he looks as though he’s waiting for something. Oh-
"On your knees".
Pantalone, still sitting on the couch, looks up at the old man with his eyes half-closed and smiles. "That's quite direct for you."
"I don't have time for preamble," Dottore whispers. " Are you going to make me ask twice?"
Pantalone stands slowly. The black silk glides across the sofa, many folds of expensive light-weight dressing gown rustling and smoothing out as the fabric follows Pantalone’s body, whilst the hem falls to the floor.
He walks to stand in front of Dottore and drops to his knees.
The nightgown is slightly translucent and has a purple glow. The fabric parts slightly between his thighs. He hadn’t meant to tease the doctor. But what could he do if his nightclothes were see-through.... And if Zandik's eyes had already dropped to the shadow between his thighs. Well. That was the doctor's problem, not his.
He leans against the knee, cheekily resting his chin on it. Pantalone peeks out from beneath his half-closed eyes and smirks. Up close, Pantalone can smell chemical residue from the laboratory, something distinctly masculine and midly disgusting. He frowns slightly and presses his nose against the cloth of the trousers.
"Impressive," Dottore says, and his voice is rough. "Did not expect young people to follow instructions so quickly, Ya Amar."
Pantalone reaches for Dottore's belt. "I prefer to think of it as honoring your seniority." Pulling back the buckle, he carefully took the clasp out of the perforated hole with a soft click and moved his pale fingers towards the top button.
"Don't be cute," Dottore says. "It's unbecoming."
He works the trousers down, gripping the edge of his underwear with his nails, carefully, until Dottore's cock is exposed.
It hangs heavy against his thigh. And soft. The skin has a delicious texture, almost velvety where it's warm from his body. Grey hair, coarse and sparse. Veins trace the length of the shaft. The head sits swollen and dark. There's a slight curve to it. And Pantalone's thumb traces this curve. This is something that requires a different kind of attention.
Pantalone leans forward. The translucent nightgown catches the light. Dottore can see the soft swell of his ass, the curve of his back through the fabric. Ninth reaches out and touches the softness. His fingertips trace along the underside of the shaft. The skin yields to pressure. He can feel the weight of it in his palm.
"Patient".
"And necessary". Pantalone says, then kisses the head. Then, just as gently as before, he kisses a little to the right. Softly. Then beside it. Then lower. And then he kisses again. And again.
The doctor lets out a little sound, somewhere between disappointment and delight.
Dottore's hand finds his hair, with a grip.
Pantalone pulls back enough to look at him. "You're going to want me to rush."
"I want many things," The Doctor replies. "But rushing isn't one of them."
Pantalone moves his mouth lower, kissing along. He can feel some changes under his touch, becoming heavier, more warm. His hand strokes slowly, following the pace of Dottore's breathing. Pantalone moves, rubs his thighs together slightly. The fabric slides across his skin. The friction, light and pleasant, and he doesn't stop. He continues kissing while his body rocks gently, seeking that pressure against his arousal.
"You're touching yourself through the nightgown," Dottore says, with an exasperated sigh and a raised eyebrow.
"I'm touching you," The other corrects. "Everything else is incidental."
Zandik's fingers tighten in his hair, but he doesn't pull. So he continues. Feeling the taste of Dottore on his tongue, the pressure against his own body, the weight of the cock gradually becoming more rigid in his hand.
The head is fully hard now, or close enough. So Veksel opens his mouth and takes the cock in, letting it slide across his tongue until the head touches the back as far as his throat will allow. Mm.
"The result is remarkable," Dottore murmurs. "Ya ghali. You haven't forgotten anything."
Pantalone takes him deeper. The cock fills his mouth. He breathes through his nose and closes his eyes. Darkness. Warmth. The salt-bitter weight on his tongue. A firm hand in his hair. Silence.
He works around it with all his feelings and desire. All of it designed to bring Dottore to exactly where he wants him.
His nightgown has ridden up. The silk pools at his hips, and underneath it the skin of his thighs is damp where he's been pressing them together. He can feel himself, swollen, slick, the folds hot against each other, and the knowledge that Dottore can probably smell it makes his face burn. He can feel the dampness of his own body, even as he focuses entirely on the sensation of Dottore hardening in his mouth. The hand moves from his hair to his cheek, fingers brushing across the skin there. The gesture is almost tender, which makes Pantalone's movement hesitate for just a moment before he continues.
Regrator hears the breathing from above begin to change slightly. The intervals between inhales growing shorter, the exhales turning shallow. The thighs beneath his palms shift, involuntary. Close.
Pantalone pulls off.
Wet and sudden sound.
"What-" Dottore starts, and there's raw and uncontrolled edge in his voice, which Pantalone is saving for later.
"Shh." Regrator wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are tender. "You'll get what you want. Eventually."
Dottore's hand is still in his hair, gripping harder now. His cock stands between them, flushed, twitching slightly, glistening where Pantalone's mouth was. Pre-cum beads at the slit. Pantalone watches it form, watches it slide.
"But first," Pantalone says, and leans back on his heels, "you're going to do something for me."
Dottore's red eyes narrow.
"What."
It goes unanswered. Instead, the doctor's nocturnal delusion stands, slowly, letting the nightgown fall, letting it settle around his body, the translucent silk catching on skin and walks into peripheral vision.
He sits on the armrest.
Crosses his legs.
And waits.
His opponent is still hard, still leaking, still exposed. His trousers are around his thighs. He looks ridiculous and powerful simultaneously, and Pantalone enjoys the contradiction the way he enjoys all profitable contradictions.
"Well?" Pantalone adjusts the nightgown across his knees. "I believe I was clear." He whispers this, leaning towards the doctor’s ear, but not so far that his body, resting on the elbow of the chair, touches Il Dottore.
"You weren't clear at all," A controlled voice replies, but Pantalone can hear the strain underneath, that tension of a man whose orgasm was just stolen from. "You stopped mid-procedure and walked away. That's sabotage!"
"Mm." Pantalone tilts his head. "Think of it as a renegotiation of terms."
"I didn't agree to-"
"You came to my apartment." Pantalone folds his hands on his crossed knee. "You sat in my chair. You told me to kneel. I knelt. Very generous of me, considering my position. And now I'd like some reciprocity."
Red eyes stare back. And Pantalone catches sight of a sharp tooth as Dottore’s lip twitches in displeasure.
"Reciprocity," Dottore repeats flatly.
"You know the word. You're a scholar."
The doctor leans in closer, about to snap back, howev-
"And yet." Pantalone uncrosses his legs. Parts his knees. The silk slides. "Here you are."
The nightgown falls between his thighs, but the shape underneath is visible. Dottore's eyes drop. His jaw tightens immediately after, furious at himself for looking. With a click of something, probably his brain, inside his head, he comes to some conclusion and stands up immediately. Awkwardly and very upright.
"You want me on my knees," Dottore says.
"I want you wherever you're most useful."
His trousers slide the rest of the way down and he steps out of them without ceremony, kicks them aside, his cock bobs as he moves. Meanwhile, Pantalone bends his knees and smoothly slides into the armchair, leaning back with a pleasant smile.
Dottore is turning round, stops in front of the piece of furniture, his hands twitching uncomfortably, not knowing where to put them.
For a moment, they're at an impasse, both of them too proud to blink first.
Then Dottore drops.
His knees hit the floor with more force than necessary. The sound is dull against the carpet, he settles between Pantalone's spread legs and his hands, rough, calloused, chemical-stained, come to rest on Pantalone's thighs over the silk.
"Happy?" The word is bitten off.
"Getting there." Pantalone reaches down and touches Dottore's jaw. Turns his face up. Those haughty eyes are burning with something that could be resentment or could be hunger. He runs his thumb across Dottore's lower lip, brushing against the crease of a wrinkle. The lip is dry. Chapped. The teeth behind it are sharp and uneven.
"Open your mouth," Pantalone says softly.
Dottore opens.
Pantalone slides two fingers inside. Not deep, just past the teeth, resting on the tongue. The inside is hot, wet, the tongue rough-textured. Dottore's breath comes warm across his knuckles. Red eyes with blue sparkles hold his, defiant, daring him.
Pantalone pushes further. Presses the fingers deeper until Dottore's throat attempts to tighten around them. Holds them there for a count of four.
Pulls them out. Wet. Glistening.
"Good," Pantalone says, and the word is so quiet it barely registers.
Dottore swallows, pushes the nightgown up. His Adam's apple goes up and then back down.
His hands move the silk past Pantalone's knees, past his thighs, bunching it at his waist. Pantalone lifts his hips slightly to help....
His cunt is flushed, the outer lips swollen from the earlier friction. Slick gathers at the seam. His thighs are slim, pale, slightly wet on the inner sides where the moisture has spread. The hair above is trimmed, neat, dark.
Dottore looks. He frowns slightly, lost in his own thoughts, forgetting to keep up his feigned annoyance. Hands on Pantalone's thighs pressing small circles into the muscle, and his gaze is fixed between Pantalone's legs with a focus that makes Pantalone's stomach clench.
"Stop overthinking things," Pantalone warns.
Dottore doesn’t reply and quickly buries his crow nose right into the soft pearl, causing the regrator to let out an embarrassing sound.
Then, with a toothed grin, he moves back a little. "I'm always thinking." Dottore's thumb slides closer to the crease where thigh meets groin. "It's a professional hazard."
His mouth descends to the inner thigh. He kisses the skin there slowly, open-mouthed, tasting the salt and the residual sweetness of whatever soap Pantalone uses. His stubble scrapes and this makes Pantalone's toes curl against the carpet.
Dottore works his way inward. His hands hold Pantalone's thighs open, thumbs pressing into the muscle, spreading him without hurry. His mouth reaches the crease again and he pauses there, breathing against the skin.
Pantalone's hand finds Dottore's head. The grey hair is coarse, unwashed, and he grips it anyway.
"Zandik."
"Feofan." The word is spoken against his skin, the vibration traveling through nerve endings. "You told me not to rush. I'm taking your advice."
"That was a completely different situation."
"Was it?" Another kiss. Closer. His breath is hot against the outer lip of Pantalone's pussy, and the proximity without contact is doing something devastating. Pantalone can feel himself getting wetter, the slick building, and Dottore is right there! And not touching.
"You're doing that on purpose," Pantalone says, and his voice is less steady than he'd like.
"I just want to be very thorough." Dottore's tongue touches the outer fold. Only the edge. A line of heat traced along the boundary between skin and sex. "There's a meaningful distinction."
Pantalone's grip tightens in his hair. He mustn’t. He mustn’t pull them out.... Well then. In that case, he’ll tear the armrest in his other hand.
When Dottore's mouth finally settles against him properly, Pantalone's spine arches against the chair.
The tongue is wide, flat, unhurried. It traces the full length of the slit from bottom to top in one slow stroke, collecting slick. Dottore makes a sound, low, deep in his chest.
"Oh," Pantalone breathes. "Oh, that's-"
Dottore does it again. Slower. His tongue dips between the folds, pressing deeper, finding the entrance and circling it once before pulling back. The sensation is maddening, but not enough.
"More."
"Demanding." But Dottore obeys. His tongue finds the clit, swollen, standing from the folds, and circles it. Twice. Pantalone's thighs close slightly around his head. Dottore pushes them back open, hands firm on the inner sides, and Pantalone lets him because the alternative is not having that mouth on him and that's unacceptable.
The sound of Dottore's mouth working against wet flesh is so loud in the quiet room. His tongue flattens against the clit, then circles, flattens again.
"Hh-" Pantalone's head tips back. His hips move, riding Dottore's face in small shifts that he can't control. His pussy squeezes against that mouth, clenching around nothing, wanting, and the slick is running, coating Dottore's chin, his lips and stubble.
"You're-" Pantalone tries. "Your execution has- Nnh-"
"Improved?" Dottore pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still touching the folds, his breath hot. "I suppose, in particular, this is down to the years of empirical data on your responses."
"Stop talking and- Ah-"
Dottore sucks the clit into his mouth. Gentle, sustained pressure, his tongue working against it while his lips maintain the seal, and Pantalone's vision whites at the edges.
His thighs are shaking. Dottore's hands grip them tighter, holding him.
"Zandik!" His voice breaks on the name. "Zandik, I'm-"
Dottore pulls back.
The loss hits like cold water. Pantalone makes a sound, sharp, frustrated, wounded! That he'll deny later under oath.
"What do we say?" Dottore asks from between his thighs. His face is wet from the mouth down. His eyes are bright.
Pantalone stares at him. Chest heaving. Cunt throbbing. That smug, sharp-toothed grin looking up at him from between his legs like Dottore hasn't just been kneeling on the floor licking him like a dog.
"I learn from the best." The dog continues to speak to him.
"I will! End your funding-"
Dottore's mouth returns. Direct to the clit with that hooked nose striking right in a small patch of fat above soft pussy, hard suction, two fingers pressing at the entrance and sliding inside in one motion.
"ARGH-"
The fingers are calloused, they crook upward, pressing against the front wall, finding the spot that makes Pantalone's body seize. His pussy clenches around them- and the! Dottore's tongue on his clit and his fingers pressing, and his-
"ЧЕРТ ТЕ-"
Pantalone comes.
He contracting around Dottore's fingers in hard pulses, the walls gripping, releasing, gripping again. His hips buck against Dottore's face and his hand tears at grey hair, pressing him even closer.
Dottore keeps working, his fingers and tongue keep pressing, and each wave of the orgasm is met with more stimulation that extends it, elongates it, drags it out until Pantalone is gasping and shaking and pushing at Dottore's forehead.
"Stop- too.... It's too much-"
Dottore stops. Pulls his fingers out slowly and sits back on his heels.
"I have a suspicion that I’ve managed to finish successfully," he says softly. And then, quieter: "Ya omri."
Pantalone is boneless. His nightgown is ruined, bunched, damp, sticking to skin, his thighs are still open, and his swollen pussy is visible. He doesn't close his legs, he doesn't have the energy....
The silence hung thick and delightful.
Dottore stands. His knees make an audible crack and he winces slightly before settling onto the arm of the chair.
His cock is hard again. Or still hard. It stands against his thigh, curved, leaking, neglected this entire time while his mouth was occupied. The head is dark, almost purple, and it twitches visibly.
Pantalone sees it.
"Come here," Pantalone says. His voice is wrecked.
Dottore settles against him in the armchair, tight, too small for both of them, requiring adjustments of limbs and angles that take a full minute to negotiate. Pantalone ends up in his lap, facing him this time, thighs on either side of Dottore's hips.
He reaches between them. Finds the cock. Guides it.
The entrance is so slick, so open from the orgasm, that Dottore slides in without resistance. Pantalone sinks down until his ass meets Dottore's thighs and then. Stays.
Dottore's forehead drops against Pantalone's shoulder. His breath comes hot and shaky against the silk.
"Hayat albi," Dottore says into the fabric. His arms circle Pantalone's waist. His hips don't move, can't move, there's no room, the armchair holds them locked together. "Hayat albi. Al-la'nah."
Pantalone wraps his arms around Dottore's neck. Holds him. Feels the cock inside him, hard, thick, twitching with Dottore's pulse. And does nothing but sit with it.
They breathe.
Dottore's hand traces up Pantalone's spine. Counts the vertebrae. An old habit.
"You're too thin," he murmurs.
"You've mentioned."
"I'll mention it until you fix it."
"And I'll ignore you until you stop."
Dottore's laugh is quiet, pressed into his shoulder. His cock twitches inside and Pantalone's cunt tightens around it in response and neither of them acknowledges it.
Pantalone's hand finds the back of Dottore's neck. The skin there is loose, warm, the tendons prominent underneath. He presses his thumb into the muscle. Dottore makes a small sound.
"Stay tonight," Pantalone says.
"I'm inside you. Where exactly would I go?"
"Stay after. In the morning."
Dottore's hands still on his back. A pause. Then they resume their tracing, slower now.
Pantalone pulls back enough to look at Dottore's face.
"Stay, Zandik."
Dottore's expression does something complicated. His mouth opens. Closes. His hands tighten on Pantalone's waist.
"Alright," he says. "Alright."
Pantalone kisses him.
They stay in the armchair. Dottore softens inside him eventually, the blood retreating, the rigidity fading into warmth and weight that Pantalone holds anyway.
Dottore falls asleep first. His breathing evens, deepens, his arms going slack around Pantalone's waist. His mouth falls slightly open. A small sound escapes with each exhale.
Pantalone watches him sleep.
He presses his mouth to Dottore's forehead. Holds it there.
Then he leans towards the doctor’s chest and tries to rest against it, curling up closer. He doesn’t care if bones would ache tomorrow. The warmth of hearts is far more important.