Someone always knows

by Sssxd

Summary:

Dottore spent years making sure his secret never slipped, making sure to mask his scent, spent years suppressing his heats by pure force and medications, he made sure no one knew his secret, no one should. He crafted his power, his reputation, building a fortress of fear and respect. Demanding submission in every room he walked in.

Except now—his secret was laying bare in Pantalone’s hands. A truth sharp enough to ruin him if exposed.

Chapter 1

The lab was quiet — too quiet.

The kind of silence that pressed against Dottore’s ears, loud in its stillness. He didn’t like it. Noise, chaos, the hum of his machines, even the annoying voices of his clones— those were familiar. Silence meant something had gone wrong.

And today, it had. The letter sat in his hand like a bomb waiting to explode. The elegant swirl of a familiar hand, and just one line, written in neat, cruel ink:

"We should talk. Alone. —P."

The contents that had been attached were even worse.

A single vial — his suppressant, the one carefully manufactured to mask his omega scent. And a torn scrap of his medical notes, the parts that detailed his cycle.

Dottore’s jaw clenched as his fingers dug into the paper until it crumpled.

No one was supposed to know, He’d built his life on that secret, tucked it away under masks and synthetic scents, buried it under the weight of his brilliance and the monstrous persona he wore so well. To the world, to the Harbingers, Dottore was nothing but a crazy genius, a man untouchable by things as lame as instinct or biology.

But Pantalone had found out.

And now, he wanted a meeting.

---

The private chamber in Snezhnaya’s bank smelled of wealth and danger. Heavy velvet curtains muted the noise from outside, and the gilded chandelier cast a warm, almost mocking glow.

Pantalone stood by the window, his back turned, as if Dottore’s arrival was nothing of importance. He was dressed elegantly as always, a vision of calculated perfection, from the sharp cut of his black top to the glint of the rings on his fingers.

"You came." His voice dripped smooth honey — the kind that burned when swallowed.

Dottore forced himself to stay collected, adjusting his gloves as he stepped further inside. "You’ve made your point," he said, voice cold, sharp enough to cut. "What do you want?"

Pantalone finally turned, a slow, deliberate motion that made Dottore’s chest slightly tighten with instinctive unease. The alpha’s eyes were sharp behind his glasses, glittering with the kind of amusement that only spelled danger.

"What do I want?" Pantalone repeated, as if savoring the words. He stepped forward, measured, predatory. "I think the real question, Dottore, is what you’re willing to give… to keep your secret safe."

The omega scoffed. "You think you can threaten me?"

"No," Pantalone corrected smoothly, closing the distance between them in two long strides. His hand shot out, fingers curling around his chin with bruising force. "I don’t think. I know."

The sudden proximity was suffocating — the alpha’s scent was intoxicating, his pheromones restrained but sharp, curling around him like invisible chains. Dottore tried to jerk away, but Pantalone tilted his head back, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"You’ve done an impressive job hiding it," Pantalone said, almost amused. "The suppressants, the sterilized environment of your labs, the mask… A perfect illusion. But even perfection has cracks."

His thumb pressed into the sharp edge of Dottore’s jaw, a deliberate dig that made his teeth clench.

"Why?" Pantalone asked, though his grip didn’t loosen. "Ashamed of what you are? Or afraid of what they’d do if they knew their great Doctor was nothing but an omega in heat?"

Dottore’s blood boiled. humiliation, fury, anger — they tangled in his chest in a chaotic mess.

"You know nothing," he hissed.

"Oh, I know enough." Pantalone leaned closer, his breath brushing Dottore’s lips, deliberately intimate. "Enough to ruin you. Imagine it — the mighty Second Harbinger, brought to his knees by something as simple as biology, The others would eat you alive."

He let go abruptly, only to slam Dottore back against the nearest wall. The impact rattled his teeth, and before he could recover, Pantalone’s knee drove between his legs, pinning him with humiliating precision.

The pressure was calculated, not enough to truly hurt but enough to remind him of their biology difference, Heat crawled up his neck despite himself, a flush of fury — and something else, something primal, something his stupid omega instincts screamed but he refused to name.

Pantalone smirked as if he could read every thought crossing his mind.

"That’s better," Pantalone murmured, almost gentle, though his knee pressed just a little harder. "You look good like this, Doctor, Cornered. Defenseless."

"Who do you thi—" Dottore started, but Pantalone’s gloved hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him.

"No," the alpha purred. "You’re not weak, are you? At least, that’s what you want them to think. But here’s the truth, Dottore — you’re just another omega trying too hard to play alpha. And I find that… amusing."

Dottore’s nails dug into his own palms, his breath coming shallow and sharp against the hand muffling him. The alpha's scent was heavy in the air and his instincts screamed at him to submit, to bare his throat, but his pride burned hotter, choking the response down.

Pantalone seemed to savor the tension, the war raging beneath Dottore’s carefully composed exterior.

"I could expose you," he said, voice soft but sharp as a knife. "One word, and the others will know. Pierro, Capitano, everyone — they’ll see you for what you are. How long do you think you’d keep your seat then?"

The thought alone made Dottore’s stomach twist in irritation. He’d spent years crafting his power, his reputation, building a fortress of fear and respect. Losing it — becoming prey — was unthinkable.

"What...do you want," Dottore ground out, his voice rough with restrained fury when Pantalone finally pulled his hand away.

The alpha smiled, slow and satisfied, as if that single concession was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

"Obedience," Pantalone said simply. "And your cooperation, when I need something from you — research, enhancements, information — you’ll provide it. No questions. No resistance."

Dottore’s eyes narrowed. "And if I refuse?"

The knee between his legs shifted, pressing up cruelly, forcing a strangled sound from his throat before he could stop it. Pantalone’s eyes gleamed.

"Then I let the world know what their brilliant Doctor really is," he said, his tone light, almost playful. "I wonder how quickly they’ll turn on you. Or worse…."

The implication was clear — and low.

"You bastard," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage.

Pantalone chuckled, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched, his voice dropping to a silken whisper.

"Oh, Doctor… You have no idea how much of a bastard I can be."

For a long, heavy moment, they stayed like that — Pantalone looming over him, his presence suffocating, Dottore’s mind a storm of fury, unease, and something darker that twisted in his gut.

Then, just as suddenly, Pantalone stepped back, as if nothing had happened.

"You’ll think about it," he said, adjusting his gloves with infuriating nonchalance. "And when you’re ready to behave… you know where to find me."

Dottore didn’t move until the door shut behind him.

---

The lab felt too small when he returned.

He tore the gloves aggressively off his hands, the black fabric now wrinkled and useless, his chest still heaved with every breath, his skin crawling with the phantom memory of Pantalone’s touch.

He’d been threatened before — rival scientists, enemies, even other Harbingers. But this felt different. This wasn’t a battle of intelligence or strategy.

This was personal.

And worse… somewhere, deep down, where his pride refused to look, there had been a part of him that hadn’t entirely hated it.

That thought alone drove him back to his desk, desperate for distraction. But even as he drowned himself in equations and experiments, his mind kept replaying the look in Pantalone’s eyes — sharp, knowing, victorious.

The game had only just begun.

Chapter 2

The weeks that followed were a careful, suffocating dance.

Pantalone never pressed too hard. At least not publicly, not in ways anyone else could see. But the quiet reminders were constant—an envelope left on his desk with another vial of suppressants, a folded note slipped into his pocket during a meeting with nothing more than a single word written on it: Obedient.

Every reminder burned like acid.

Dottore hated him. Hated the way that smooth voice echoed in his head when he tried to focus, hated the way his body tensed whenever Pantalone entered a room, hated the way some twisted part of him still reacted, instinctive and uncontrollable, to the man’s presence.

Fucking hated that no matter how much he tried to bury his omega side, Pantalone always managed to awaken it.

He had lived too long denying his biology. He wasn’t going to let a smug bastard like Pantalone shatter that illusion.

Not without a fight.

---

The confrontation happened in the lab, because of course it did.

Pantalone had arrived unannounced again, steps silent and patient like a wolf stepping into a rabbit warren, he moved with that infuriating calm, inspecting things he had no right to touch, his gloved fingers trailing over surgical trays and neatly stacked notes.

"Don’t touch that," Dottore snapped without looking up from his work, voice sharp enough to slice.

Pantalone hummed as though he hadn’t heard him. "You’ve been ignoring my requests, Doctor," he said, his tone light but lined with something darker."I don’t appreciate being ignored."

"Maybe take the hint," Dottore muttered, scribbling down another words just to keep from throwing the scalpel in his hand.

The alpha’s footsteps were soft but deliberate as he closed the distance, that familiar heat of his presence bleeding into Dottore’s carefully controlled space.

"You’re forgetting our arrangement," Pantalone murmured.

Dottore finally turned, mask gleaming under the light, crimson eyes sparking with fury beneath it. "No," he hissed, "I’m refusing to keep playing your pathetic little game."

Something in the air shifted.

The smirk on Pantalone’s face didn’t falter, but his posture straightened, sharp and predatory. "Careful," he said, almost a warning, though there was amusement curling through every syllable. "You don’t get to refuse me, omega."

The word hit like a slap.

"Say it again," Dottore spat, stepping forward, gloved hands curling into fists.

Pantalone tilted his head, eyes glittering dangerously. "Omega," he repeated, slower this time, savoring the way Dottore trembled with anger. "That’s what you are, Doctor. That’s what you’ll always be, no matter how many masks you wear or titles you earn."

Something in Dottore snapped.

He lunged, yanking at Pantalone’s collar with enough force to stagger even an alpha. "I’m not yours to control," he snarled. "Not now, not ever—"

But before he could finish, Pantalone caught his throat, slamming him back against the cold metal of the lab table. The impact rattled through Dottore’s spine, the sterile tray of instruments clattering to the floor as the alpha’s hand closed roughly around his throat—

"Enough," Pantalone said, voice low, sharp. "I tried to be patient with you," the alpha murmured, leaning down until his breath ghosted over Dottore’s lips. "But you don’t seem to understand your place, so let me make it clear."

The shift in pheromones was immediate and devastating.

One moment, the air was just thick with tension; the next, it was suffocating—a heavy, heady surge of alpha dominance flooding the sterile room, sinking sharp claws into Dottore’s carefully constructed control and tearing it apart.

Dottore swallowed.

His thighs nearly opened to invite the alpha closer as the scent slammed into him, dizzying and hot, his pulse roaring in his ears. His body reacted instinctively, shamefully, betraying him with a rush of slick dripping from his hole, heat forming low in his gut.

The scent of his slick spiked in the air, sweet and humiliating, his traitorous body asking for what it was made for–

"Stop—" he choked.

Pantalone didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed closer, pressing in until his chest was flushed to Dottore's, until the doctor was caged between the table and his body, until there was nowhere to escape.

"Do you feel that?" Pantalone murmured against his ear, his voice silky. "That’s what happens when you push me, Doctor. That’s what happens when you forget what you are."

Dottore’s breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as another wave of pheromones rolled over him. Heat coiled in his veins, vicious and unstoppable, his hole clutched at nothing as slick started to stain his inner thighs, his nails dug into Pantalone's wrists as the alpha kept his hold around his throat.

"Get out," he managed, though the words sounded thin even to his own ears.

"Oh, I don’t think you want that," Pantalone said, cruel amusement dripping from every word. His hand slid from Dottore’s throat to cup his jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes met—omega to alpha, one trapped, the other hunting.

"You’re in heat," the alpha said, voice a low, satisfied purr. "And you know exactly whose fault that is."

Humiliation burned through the haze clouding Dottore’s mind, being forced into heat on the spot, reduced to this, made the humiliation swallow him whole, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the need gnawing at him, sharp and insistent. His suppressants—damn them—weren’t strong enough to fight this, not when the trigger was literally pressed to him, radiating power and dominance like a brand.

"Fucking bitch," Dottore choked out, his voice trembling with something far too close to desperation.

Pantalone smiled, slow and sharp. He titled Dottore’s chin up further. "You hate that I was right. That no matter how high you climb, no matter how much you pretend, your body will always remember what it wants, what it needs. And that is, to be filled."

Dottore’s breathing was shallow now, harsh pants breaking the quiet of the lab. He hated the way his thighs trembled, the way his body leaned despite himself toward the unbearable comfort of that alpha scent.

Pantalone leaned even closer, close enough that his lips brushed the corner of Dottore’s mouth, his voice a low, taunting whisper.

"Say it," he murmured. "Say what you are."

Dottore jerked his head away, every shred of pride clinging to silence, but Pantalone’s grip tightened on his jaw, forcing his head back.

"Say it," the alpha repeated, his tone sharper now, commanding.

The fight in Dottore wavered, cracked under the suffocating press of pheromones and the unbearable heat clawing through his veins. Everything in his body told him to submit, to drop the fight, to stop being stubborn, stop pushing the alpha, stop angering him, that instead, he should please him, he should submit,

submit submit–

An omega, that's what he is, His throat worked, his lips trembling around the word he refused to give voice to, say it..he should say it—

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch…" Dottore said instead, then with a slow smile and zero hesitation, spat on his face.

Pantalone’s smile turned sharper than any scalpel Dottore had used.

"Mhmm," he hummed, slowly wiping the saliva from his cheek with the back of his hand, letting the silence stretch until every beat of Dottore’s heart felt deafening.

"We'll need to work on that filthy little mouth of yours." He finally stepped back, letting the suffocating weight of his presence ease just enough for Dottore to breathe again.

"Consider this a lesson," Pantalone said smoothly, straightening his clothes as if nothing had happened. "Next time you think about testing me, remember how easily I can break that little facade of yours."

Dottore stayed sprawled on the table, his body trembling with the aftershocks of heat and humiliation, every breath tasting like defeat.

Pantalone lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed in the white light, that infuriating smirk still curving his lips.

"Be obedient, Doctor," he said, his voice a smooth threat. "And maybe I’ll be merciful next time."

Then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the heavy scent of dominance and the wreckage of Dottore’s pride.

---

The heat lasted for hours.

Suppressants did nothing to down it; they’d been rendered useless by the direct surge of pheromones. He spent the night locked in his room, biting down on his pillow to keep the moans and whimpers muffled, every nerve alight with humiliating need he couldn’t chase away no matter how many times he jerked off.

By morning, the shame burned hotter than the fever had.

Chapter 3

By morning, the shame burned hotter than the fever had.

It was hell.

Every inch of his body ached as though he’d been wrung dry, his sheets ruined, his pride even more so. He’d scrubbed his skin raw in the shower, trying to wash away the phantom press of Pantalone’s hand on his throat, the sting of humiliation of last night, the scent that clung too deep to be scrubbed away.

And yet, when he finally forced himself back into the rhythm of his lab, the bastard was there again.

Not storming in, not demanding, not even speaking at first—just leaning casually against a cabinet, arms crossed.

Watching. Always watching.

"Why are you here," Dottore said flatly, not looking up from his notes.

"I came to check on you," Pantalone replied smoothly, he pushed off the cabinet and strolled forward, his presence sinking like oil into the room. "After all, I left you in quite a state the other night. Did you manage to take care of yourself?"

Dottore clenched his pen so tight it nearly snapped. "If you’re here to waste my time again, you can leave."

A soft chuckle. "Ah, but I’m not wasting your time, Doctor. I’m ensuring your… cooperation."

That single word made his jaw lock. "I already told you—"

"Yes, yes, you’re not mine to control, you said it so passionately last time." Pantalone’s gloved hand slid along the edge of the table until it brushed Dottore’s wrist. "And yet your body sang a very different story."

Dottore jerked his hand back, heat prickling at the base of his spine despite himself. "Touch me again, and I’ll cut your fingers off."

"Threats, threats," Pantalone murmured, stepping closer, standing behind him, his voice lowering into a faint whisper. "You wouldn’t risk me walking into the meeting room tomorrow and casually mentioning your secret. How long do you think your precious reputation would last once they know the great Doctor is an omega, who was beautifully dripping slick last night?"

The pen in Dottore’s hand trembled. His crimson eyes snapped back to meet Pantalone’s eyes over his shoulder, burning. "You wouldn’t dare."

Pantalone’s smile was pure satisfaction. "Try me."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Dottore wanted to laugh in disbelief, to curse him bloody—but the words stuck, thick and choking, because he knew, deep down, the man wasn’t bluffing.

"Now," Pantalone said lightly, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. "Let’s try again, I need your reports on–"

"No."

The alpha’s eyes glinted, he reached out from behind, slow and deliberate, his fingers traced down the side of his mask, feather-light. A threat disguised as a caress. "Careful, Doctor. I might decide you need a more personal lesson, maybe last night wasn't enough."

Dottore didn't respond, his entire body betrayed him again at the mention of last night, he remembered the heavy scent of Pantalone's pheromones, the memory sending a shiver crawling down his spine, his thighs tensing against the phantom urge to spread. He hated it—hated how every nerve seemed loyal to the bastard’s touch, hated how Pantalone could unravel him so easily.

With a snarl, he shoved the reports Pantalone needed across the table. "Take them."

Pantalone’s smile widened. "Progress."

---

It didn’t stop there.

Each visit, each reminder, became worse. He no longer settled for leaving vials of suppressants or notes; now, he lingered in Dottore’s space, brushing fingers against the doctor’s wrist, against his throat, against the small of his back as if testing how much he could touch before Dottore snapped.

And Dottore—damn him—cooperated. Not fully, never fully. But little pieces slipped through his fingers: reports, informations, experimental outcomes, not because he wanted to give them, but because the alternative—forced into heat, humiliation, threats murmured against his ear while his body produced slick against his well—was worse.

He told himself he was biding time, that he was keeping control by feeding scraps, while waiting for a way to turn the tables.

But his body knew better.

Every brush of Pantalone’s glove left his skin tingling. Every lean close, every murmured threat, every glint of satisfaction in the alpha’s eyes made his chest tighten with something dangerously close to anticipation.

And worse, his instincts betrayed him in the silence of his privacy. He found himself thinking about those warm touches, leaning unconsciously toward the space Pantalone was supposed to be standing according to his memories, his throat closing when he remembered the hand that lingered too long on it, slick dampening his underwear at the mere idea of the alpha's pheromones.

Those omega instincts were fucking him up.

He hated it, he hated himself more for losing against them.

---

One night, Pantalone cornered him again.

The lab was dim, only the cold light of glass tubes illuminating the space. His clones long gone to god knows where, Dottore had been bent over the table, too tired from setting on the chair for seven hours, he was scribbling on notes, exhaustion heavy in his shoulders, when he felt the familiar scent in the air.

"Still working?" Pantalone’s voice slid into the silence.

Dottore didn’t look up. "What do you want?"

The alpha circled behind him, slow and deliberate, and then a gloved hand settled at his shoulder. "What I always want, Doctor. Your obedience, your cooperation."

Dottore’s hand tightened on his pen. "Haven't you gotten them? You’ve gotten even more than enough."

"Not completely." The hand slid from his shoulder to his throat from behind, thumb pressing against the side of his jaw, forcing his head back so they lock eyes, the position forced Dottore's back to arch, his ass pressing faintly against Pantalone's groin in the process.

"You’ve been giving, yes, but also resisting, even as your body begs me to notice, so why the tough act, Dottore? Just give in and accept what you really are."

Dottore’s pulse thundered, his throat worked against the hand holding him, heat flaring low in his belly. "You’re delusional."

"Mmm." Pantalone leaned close, breath brushing his ear. "Then explain why you’re trembling."

And god help him, he was. His entire body shook with the effort of not leaning back, not melting into the hand that held him so firmly, so decisively.

Pantalone hummed knowingly, his nose buried in the side of Dottore’s neck, drinking in the scent. "So sweet when you’re lying. Your body tells the truth, even if you don’t."

"Back off," Dottore rasped, but the bite had dulled, softened with need.

Pantalone chuckled, low and rich. "If I wanted, Doctor, I could have you on this table within seconds. wet and begging, mask tossed aside, pride shattered. All I’d have to do is let a small whiff of my scent, and you'll collapse against your well."

His hand squeezed, slightly choking, "But I’m merciful. All I ask is that you keep giving me what I want. Reports, research, But without your pretty little attitude, it's a game you can't win, Doctor. No matter how much you spit venom, threats. Or worse–saliva."

Dottore’s crimson eyes burned behind his mask. Fury and shame warred with the molten ache tearing through his body. He wanted to fight, to tear the smug bastard apart—but he also wanted to lean, to let the heat consume him, to finally stop fighting and let instinct take over.

He swallowed hard. "Fine," he forced out, the word catching like barbed wire in his throat. "You’ll get what you want."

Pantalone smiled, slow and sharp. He released Dottore’s throat only to trail his gloved fingers down the length of his spine, pausing at the end of his lower back. "Good boy."

Then he leaned down until his lips brushed the corner of the doctor’s jaw, speaking in a whisper meant for his ears alone.

"One day, Doctor, you’ll stop pretending you hate this."

And then he was gone, leaving Dottore shaking, humiliated and painfully hard, every nerve screaming.

And deep down, in a place he would never admit aloud, a sick part of him craved the next reminder.

Chapter 4

The game dragged on for months.

Even though Dottore told him he'd get what he wants, he never truly yielded. Pantalone would press with silken threats and touches that lingered too long, testing, teasing, Dottore would give scraps—just enough information to keep his secret safe—but always with venom in his words, always with the sharp edge of defiance.

They circled each other like predator and prey, though the roles never stayed the same for long. Sometimes Dottore lunged, crimson eyes blazing behind the mask, and sometimes Pantalone cornered him with a mere smile, his presence enough to unravel every ounce of composure.

It was maddening and addictive in a way that made Dottore want to carve the thought out of his skull.

Still, he endured. He refused to be broken, even if his body betrayed him in silence.

But endurance has limits.

---

It started with a vial.

Another sleepless night bled into dawn, the lab bathed in pale silver light. His hands shook as he searched through the rows of vials, searching for something to keep him awake. Even though his body was frayed from overwork, his mind buzzing on the edge of collapse, he still got work to do, and in his exhaustion, he didn’t notice the vial he pulled free wasn’t the one he meant to grab.

The liquid burned down his throat before his brain caught up.

It took minutes before it hit.

The first wave slammed into him so hard his knees nearly buckled. Heat coiled in his gut, spreading viciously through his veins, igniting his nerves like firecrackers. His pen clattered from his hand, ink bleeding across the page as his head slammed against the cool surface of his desk.

"Fuck—" His voice cracked as the second wave rolled through, tearing a shuddering gasp from his throat, His thighs were shaking too hard, his hole spasming around nothing.

Pheromones flooded the room before he could stop them. Sweet, thick, overwhelming—the scent of an omega dragged unwillingly into a desperate heat, his heat.

"Fuckfuckfuck."

Dottore pressed a trembling hand to his mask, as if he could physically stop the scent from spilling out, but it was useless. It saturated the air, heavy and cloying, announcing his weakness to anyone who came too close.

He needed an antidote, now, a suppressant, anything. If anyone smelled this—if anyone knew—everything would shatter.

He stumbled towards the shelves, knocking vials aside with frantic hands. The slick spread faster, soaking through his pants until he could feel it sliding down his inner thighs—his body was demanding, desperate, needy beyond reason, his breath coming in ragged puffs. "There has to be something," he muttered, tearing through rows of bottles, fingers slipping on glass. "There has to—"

But nothing. None of his vials were meant for this. The wrong vial had undone him in seconds, and there was no quick reversal, no easy cure.

His hole was burning, fluttering helplessly around emptiness, aching to be split open, filled, bred. He clawed at his waistband, desperate to rip his pants off, but his hands shook too violently he couldn't do it. The heat was suffocating, maddening.

His legs gave out, sending him crashing to the cold floor. He caught himself on his hands, back arched as he was on all fours, arms trembling with the effort of propping himself up, thighs pressed tight together, a pathetic attempt to relief the unbearable ache between them. Slick pooled hot and humiliating, staining his clothes.

His mask slipped in the chaos, clattering across the tiles.

His flushed face was exposed, damp strands of light blue hair clinging to his skin, crimson eyes blown wide and unfocused. His lips parted in quick pants, cheeks burning with fever.

Beautiful. Disgustingly beautiful.

He clawed at the floor, trying collect the strength to stand up, but his body betrayed him aagain—precum already soaking through his pants, dick straining hard and leaking.

"No–"

He bit down on a groan, but the noises still broke free—whimpers, low and needy, humiliating. His entire body shook, thighs trembling uncontrollably, his hole clenching empty as slick dripped from him in humiliating bursts.

The scent thickened, sickly sweet, impossible to ignore.

And he was alone. Thank the gods, he was alone.

His arms gave out beneath him eventually, forehead pressing to the cold tile. If anyone smelled this, his secret would be over. He’d be stripped of everything he’d built, reduced to nothing more than an omega in heat.

He wanted to claw his own skin off. He wanted to rip out the part of himself that betrayed him.

The irony twisted like a knife—only one person knew, only one person could ease the fire burning through his veins, and Dottore would rather cut his own throat than crawl to Pantalone for mercy.

"Never," he hissed to the empty lab, voice trembling. "I’d rather die."

Another wave tore through him, forcing his hips to jerk helplessly, precum wetting his underwear, slick dripping hot down his thighs. His nails scraped at the floor until they split, his body shaking violently.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. The scientist in him screamed to get a grip, to fix, to fight, but the omega instincts clawed louder, drowning him in unbearable need, ride it out, they whispered. Submit, beg, find him, find alpha.

"Shut up!" he snapped at his own instincts, tears wetting his eyes but refusing to fall, "Shut the fuck up, I won’t submit to my biology—"

But his body didn’t care. His dick pulsed painfully, every heartbeat sending another leak of precum into his ruined pants. His hole clenched around nothing, desperate and aching, every nerve screaming for fullness. screaming for cock—anything, anyone, to slam into him and make it stop

It was unbearable, his own hand would never be enough. Not this time. Not when the heat was triggered so violently.

But there was no one else, no one knew. No one could know.

His cheek pressed against the cold surface, body trembling uncontrollably. His hair clung to his face, his mouth hung open in ragged gasps, his pale skin glowing with fever.

Gods, he was so weak.

Weak, and desperate, and pathetic.

And still, through the haze, one name burned in his mind like poison.

Pantalone.

The only one who knew. The only one who could help.

The one he would never ask.

Dottore squeezed his eyes shut, clawing his nails against his own thigh until blood welled, trying to anchor himself in pain instead of need. Anything to fight it, to keep his pride intact, to stop himself from surrendering fully into instinct.

"Never," he whispered again. "Not him, not ever."

The sweet, humiliating scent of his heat hung heavy in the air, impossible to hide, impossible to escape.

And as he trembled there, alone in the wreckage of his pride, the bitter truth gnawed at him—if Pantalone walked in now, he wouldn’t have the strength to fight.

Not this time, he'd crack completely.

Minutes bled into hours, every second dragging like knives through his flesh. His body wouldn’t cool down, wouldn’t give him a break, no matter how hard he clawed at control.

He curled on the floor, panting into the crook of his arm, tears finally slipping free against his will, his mask lay shattered across the room, a broken witness to how far he’d fallen.

Pathetic, he was pathetic, reduced to instincts and need. “I won't—" he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked.

But even his own words betrayed him. His thighs closing tighter, chasing friction, slick pooling hot between his thighs. The sweet, intoxicating scent of his heat thickened until even he wanted to gag on it.

He couldn’t think.

All he could do was need.

It clawed through him viciously, twisting every nerve into desperation. His body screamed for it—for touch, for fullness, for alpha—and every attempt to ignore it broke him further.
He dragged himself up onto his elbows, chest heaving, hair sticking to his flushed skin. His crimson eyes glazed with fever as he stared at the door.

Anyone.

He hated himself for thinking it, but the plea echoed in his head until it burned. He didn’t care if it was a stranger, a colleague, anyone at all—he just needed this unbearable ache to end.

He needed someone.

And then the door clicked open.

The sound was soft, but to Dottore’s fevered body it was deafening—his head snapping toward the sound, his thighs trembling violently, his cock leaking more precum at the thought of a presence.

Footsteps, slow, familiar.

No–

Pantalone stepped into the lab as though nothing was wrong. As though the room wasn’t suffused with the heavy, suffocating scent of omega heat. His eyes swept the wreckage calmly—the shattered vials, the scattered notes, the trembling doctor sprawled on the floor with his flushed face bare and slick staining his pants.

For the first time in his life, Dottore couldn’t summon words.

He could only breathe, ragged and uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, his pupils blown wide and hazy. His body betrayed everything his pride refused to admit.

Pantalone didn’t speak right away, he merely crossed the room, pulled out a chair, and sat down as though settling in to watch a show. One leg crossed over the other, gloved hands resting casually on his knee, posture infuriatingly composed.

He let the silence stretch until Dottore’s pulse thundered in his ears, until every second felt like a noose tightening.

Then, finally, his smooth voice broke the quiet.

"If you want it," Pantalone said, "come and get it."

The words hit harder than any slap, deeper than any stab.

Dottore’s thighs trembled violently, a fresh wave of slick rushing free at the sound alone. His instincts screamed at him to move, to crawl, to obey. His pride screamed louder, shoving the idea down with white-hot fury.

He pressed his forehead to the floor again, his hands clenching into fists, teeth sinking into his lip until he tasted blood.

Never.

Never, never, never—

And yet his body shuddered, cock twitching painfully at the idea of the alpha being there, within reach, precum leaking in humiliating streams. His nails scraped the tile as if anchoring him in place.

Pantalone’s gaze never wavered. He simply sat, watching, his patience infinite, his presence pressing.

"I won’t," Dottore panted, his voice wrapped in pain and need. "I’d rather kill myself."

"Perhaps," Pantalone murmured, tilting his head. "But your body disagrees."

Dottore’s hole clenched violently at the words, he bit back a whimper, muffling it against his arm, but Pantalone heard. Of course he heard.

The alpha leaned back in the chair, calm as ever, his gloved hand lifting to adjust his glasses. "I’ll give you a choice, Doctor. Crawl to me… or suffer alone until you break."

The silence after was unbearable.

Dottore trembled violently, his body begging, his pride breaking, his mind splitting between instinct and refusal. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, sweat dripping down his flushed skin, crimson eyes burning with tears and fury.

And Pantalone just watched, composed and cruel, as though he had all the time in the world.

Chapter 5

The air was thick with the sweetness leaking from him, and Dottore could hardly breathe in it. His body was no longer his own, legs trembling violently as if his muscles had turned to useless string.

He had sworn, for years, never to let this happen, never to let it spill out. He had built a shield of chemicals, experiments, suppressants—all of them working tirelessly, without fail, until now. Until one wrong vial. One careless slip, and suddenly his entire body was stripped to nothing but slick and desperation.

And worse—Pantalone was setting there.

The thought was like acid poured over raw flesh, his thighs rubbed unconsciously, trembling and pressed together for the faintest friction, his cock shamelessly wetting his pants with sticky precum. It was unbearable. It was humiliating. Being like this with those sharp eyes looking down at him.

He couldn’t lose it now, he couldn’t. He had survived this long without anyone knowing. He’d die before asking—

"I’ll give you a choice, Doctor. Crawl to me… or suffer alone until you break."

Dottore’s mouth went dry, His pride screamed at him, cursed him, clawed at the inside of his skull telling him don’t move, don’t you dare submit to him. But his body—his traitorous body—was louder.

He propped himself up from the floor, His legs trembled as though the very act of standing was a battle lost before it began. He forced himself upright, knees buckling immediately, the muscles of his thighs quivering with every ounce of strain. For one horrifying moment he thought he might collapse right there, sprawled on the floor again in front of Pantalone’s feet like a pathetic, ruined thing.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly as he took one shaky step forward. Then another. Each step was torture, his body heavy and clumsy, like his bones were made of lead. His cock throbbed against the tight fabric of his pants, every pulse of blood shooting sparks of agony and need through his gut. His scent, thick and sweet, hung in the air like a noose, suffocating him as much as it was surely teasing the bastard watching him.

Pantalone didn’t move, he didn’t lift a finger. His eyes, sharp and glittering with cruel delight, followed every agonized inch of Dottore’s progress. The man might as well have been watching a performance staged for his personal amusement.

And maybe he was.

The chair loomed closer, the smug bastard sitting in it with all the patience of a predator letting its prey stumble right into its den willingly.

By the time he reached the last few feet, Dottore’s vision blurred, his surroundings tilting dangerously as he took the final steps. His knees finally gave out, and his body betrayed him without warning. He stumbled forward—and fell.

Straight onto Pantalone’s lap.

The impact knocked the wind out of him, a strangled gasp leaving his throat as he straddled the Regrator. His thighs around Pantalone’s hips, his cock pressed up against the fine fabric of Pantalone’s trousers. The heat radiating off him was unbearable, suffocating, searing.

His forehead dropped against Pantalone’s shoulder. He needed a moment—just a moment—to breathe. His lungs pulled in shaky gulps of air, but each inhale dragged more of Pantalone's scent—sharp, thick, intoxicating. It only worsened the haze that had already overtaken his mind, thickening the fog in his skull more. He could barely think.

He needed his cock. He needed it now.

His fingers—shaking so violently they looked like they belonged to a dying man—fumbled for Pantalone’s zipper. The faint metallic sound filled the silence as he tugged desperately. His teeth caught his lower lip, biting down hard enough to taste blood, but even the sharp sting couldn’t ground him.

Once, twice. he tried to undo the zipper, but his fingers were shaking so badly they slipped, every slip pushing him closer to breaking. His thighs clenched around Pantalone, hips grinding weakly against Pantalone’s lap, desperate for friction, desperate for something.

"Please…" The whisper tore out of him before he could stop it, faint and breathless, he hated himself for it. He hated the way his voice cracked, hated the way he sounded like a begging whore.

Just when he was about to try to undo the zipper for the third time, his body finally gave out.

His eyes rolled back, crimson irises vanishing into white, lids fluttering shut as the heat fried the last fragile thread of his control. Limbs slackened, fingers slipping helplessly from Pantalone’s zipper. His body sagged backwards, falling off Pantalone’s lap—

But he never hit the floor.

Pantalone’s hand slid around his narrow waist with infuriating ease, steadying him as though he had predicted this collapse from the beginning. Dottore’s head lolled back limply, His throat, pale and flushed, stretched out bare under the harsh lights of the lab, his red lips parted, breath ragged and shallow. His pale skin gleamed with sweat, the curve of his neck inviting, pulsing faintly with each fevered heartbeat.

Pantalone’s eyes darkened.

He could bite him now. Sink his teeth in and mark him permanently. The urge to do it flared hot, primal, telling him to claim what had so carelessly been offered. The omega was giving his throat without even knowing it.

For one dizzying second, the temptation was unbearable. His jaw ached, every inch of him screaming to claim. But instead, Pantalone clicked his tongue softly, a sound of cruel disappointment.

"So close," he murmured, his lips brushing dangerously near that vulnerable pulse. "I nearly had you begging properly."

His thumb stroked lightly along the sharp line of Dottore’s jaw, tilting his head back just to bare his throat more, admiring the helpless slackness of his expression.

It was rare—so rare—to see him without that mask. Without the sharp tongue, the sharp words, the sharp walls he’d built brick by brick. Now, with flushed cheeks, sweat-damp hair, trembling lips parted slightly as shallow breaths spilled out…

He was unbearable.

Unbearably pretty.

Pantalone’s gaze lingered on the curve of his red mouth, the wet shine of his lips, the flutter of lashes against flushed skin. Crimson eyes rolled back beneath them, lost in heat and instinct. The Regrator’s hand pressed firmer to his waist, savoring the way Dottore’s body fit in his lap, pliant, trembling, his cock straining painfully against his pants even in unconsciousness.

"Next time," Pantalone murmured against his collarbone, his voice low, silky and wicked. "Next time, I'll make you lose yourself completely, I’ll make you ride me until your legs give out. Until you forget every ounce of pride."

God, he wanted him, wanted him to beg again, awake this time. Wanted to watch those crimson eyes blur with tears, wanted to hear that sharp voice collapse into broken pleas.

Patience. He could wait.

Because the doctor—this proud, furious doctor—was already cracking.

And once the cracks widened, once the mask shattered completely, there would be no putting it back together.

Not with Pantalone holding all the pieces.