Ratthew

Pantalone stands in his bathroom. The day had been long, his customers at the bank soul sucking, the shower hot enough to leave his skin red and sensitive.

Covered only in a towel wrapped around his waist, he stares at the large, ornate mirror above his sink.

All too silently he observes what should be his reflection, and yet all he can see, through those tired purple eyes, is her.

The same face that would angrily scream at him, call him an unruly freak, a disobedient brat. How he dishonored the name she give him.

Her long black hair rested against her temple the same way it does over his.

"You ruined my body Feofan." She had said once, laying drunk on her bed after she had come home late that night. She had worked double her usual shift just to afford enough food for them to not starve by the end of the month.

"I was beautiful before I had you."

He hadn't responded. He was only six, what was he supposed to say? Back then the words hadn't stung nearly as much as her cold hands had on his skin.

Only now do they wear their intended weight on his soul.

It's the same face that had averted his eyes when she handed him over to the debt collectors. Even then he could tell she didn't feel bad about it, she felt no regret nor guilt. She simply hadn't cared about what he felt as they grabbed his small hands and dragged him away from home.

He hadn't looked back either.

The same face that had stared at him in abject horror just last week. When he stood tall before the wreck he once called home, draped in his white harbinger coat.

"No, I don't believe you." She had said, shaking her head in disbelief. Perhaps knowing, but simply unwilling to acknowledge the truth of what her poor little boy had become. Unwilling to accept her part in the chain of events that led Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel to turn into the ruthless monster that is the Regrator.

"You aren't my son." He could see it in her eyes. The anguish that was long overdue, the fear, the confusion. The only thing uncharacteristically missing was her anger. The emotion, that had defined the image he had formed of her in his scattered childhood memories was simply gone, as if it was a curse she had been freed of. Something she had passed down to him much like her appearance.

That unwavering hatred was his to bear now. It would show itself only in quiet, isolated rooms, before incompetent subordinates and indebted clients of the northland bank.

It would burst out of him in waves, like a starving animal lunging at unsuspecting prey, and destroy everything in its path, leaving nothing behind but a crying terrified person and a thoroughly wrecked room beyond repair.

Damaged furniture, shattered mugs, more than a few broken bones. It was never pleasant and it always lasted longer than he pleaded it would.

He likes to think he stops being himself in those moments, that it isn't him who is to blame for the results of his sudden violent outbursts, but something else entirely. A ghost of times passed, an afterimage of a violent mother, or a group of strict older strangers whose lavish yet empty houses he lived in, who made him call them "father".

But that past is only to blame for itself. Pantalones actions are his own, cared out by his hands, the venom voiced from his tongue. He has only the mirror to accuse.

"Lord regrator?" The muffled voice of one of his subordinates takes him out of his downward spiral. He lets out a tired groan.

"I am not to be disturbed." He calls out loud and clear. This is the third time tonight he had had to remind her of his orders. This is usually the point where she looses her job and ends up under the tight straps of Dottores operating table.

"I know, I am terribly sorry, it's just,… the lord Dottore demands to see you. He's rather insistent." The fatuus stutters out.

Of course. What else would he expect. He always picks the best of times.

Pantalone slides his feet into his slippers, he pulls his soft black bathrobe over his shoulders and pulls the fabric belt tight around his hips, making himself just presentable enough to not expose his manhood. Finally he opens his bathroom door and wanders sluggishly into his living room.

"Let him in." He tells the subordinate. His hair still shining wet, but at least not dripping water over his polished floor, he slumps down onto his couch, forcing himself to cross his legs before his own exhausted mind reminds him that there isn't exactly any part of him Dottore hasn't seen.

"About time," the doctor mutters mutters as he pushes his way into the regrators home.

The moment their eyes meet, his expression shifts from angry annoyance to a calm serenity.

"Caught you at a bad time huh?" He jokes, noting the lack of usual clothing as he settles down next to Pantalone.

"Now you pretend to care." The ninth laughs, picking the mask up off his nose.

"I must look a mess."

The doctors red glowing eyes sparkle at him like rare gemstones through pale blue eyelashes.

"You smell nice." He notes analytically as always. All his compliments tend to boarder on scientific acknowledgement.

"What's prompted you to interrupt my shower?" The Regrator inquires.

"I need-" he starts.

"Mora." Pantalone finishes, rubbing his eyes. Preparing himself for another absurd number to be brought before him.

"-for a large scare experiment, yes. Though not much. Only travel expenses and a bit of hush money."

"Oh?"

"Im developing a chemical. I require a testing ground and I need guinea pigs. Lots of em." The doctor explains.

Pantalone drops his head back against the cushions. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling for a second.

"Would a small town suffice?" He asks.

"Just about."

"I know a place." He whispers.

He thinks for a second. About his home, about every single person who had raised him. All the houses, foundations so weak they could collapse under their own weight by a strong breeze. Little smoking chimneys and poor families of friendly faces just trying to get by.

"Do whatever you want with it, just… burn it down when your done. All of it." He speaks, his face absent of care, of sympathy or any emotion at all for that matter. He feels nothing at all, only the cold air on his scalp.

Dottore🧪🔬💉

(All of the segments differ slightly but this is about omega.)

•♡ Messy hair. He only rarely trims it because he gets too focused on his work to care about souch trivial things. He does tend to clean it up slightly before he attends meetings with his dear banker (because he prefers it to look nice and clean). He's got a beautiful happy trail, and yes the carpet matches the drapes. Its all blue.

•♡ Dick piercings, multiple, all done by himself personally. Though odly enough only one of his nipples is pierced because he likes the asymmetrical esthetic of it.

•♡ Experimental, he will try just about anything at least once just to see how his and his partners body will respond.

•♡ Hand fixation. Just loves to observe the tendons, bones and muscles move when their fingers are flexed or strained.

•♡ The klinikal talk follows you into the bedroom. He can and will name every part of your body by its medical term.

•♡ Knows all the sensitive spots and preassure points to illicit a reaction and will abosolutely abuse that knowlage.

•♡ Will use his aquired god powers on the bedroom (for example: use gravity manipulation to restrain his partner)

•♡ In both his bossfight forms his dick glows blue when erect

•♡ Will use medical examinations as foreplay. Doctors orders must be strictly followed.

•♡ Loves to be in complete control just as much as he loves to be absolutely dominated and degrated. The man can do both. He believes himself to be all powerful and untouchable, which is why it really does it for him when somebody (usually pantalone) manages to get him to submit.

•♡ Will not shut up. He is LOUD in the bedroom. When he's not talking about medical stuff he moans and groans at a downright embarrassing volume.

•♡ Enjoys being tied up, leashed and chocked. Learned that from one of his "business meetings" with the regrator. Ended up stealing the harness from him.

•♡ "Im not a Masochist, I just want to see if my body can handle it." It being kniveplay with his scalpels.

Pantalone🪙🚬🏦

•♡ Waxed. Epilated. Not a single hair on that man, I am sorry. He is bald as can be.

•♡ Though sometimes after a long tedious bout of field work it grows out just enough to show a thin black happy trail. It doesnt tend to stick around for long though.

•♡ Pierced nipples, done by Dottore. He owns beautiful expensive jewelery that matches his rings for them too.

•♡ The gloves stay on during sex. Especially the one on his heavily scarred arm. (They only rarely come off for Dottore)

•♡ Oral fixation, loves making people gag for him. Will stick his fingers in your mouth and down your throat without warning.

•♡ Loves litteraly and metaphorically stepping on people. Putting his partner physically beneath him and degrading them from above. Pressing his shoes against his partners crotch. Will use restraints on his partner if he so pleases.

•♡ Sadist. Adores watching his partner struggle and squirm. Also loves to see people get on their knees and beg to him. He just adores a pathetic display. He will spank, pull hair and choke.

•♡ Bit of an exhibitionist. Loves the thrill of nearly getting caught.

•♡ Owns multiple toys of various kinds. Dlldos of various sizes and shapes, nipple clamps, gags, handcuffs, straps and harnesses (dottore stole one of them and wont give it back), plugs, vibrators, a sounding rod, stuff you can not even immagine.

(He's got blackmail on the sex shop owner he regularly purchases from because he is not letting anyone know that the high and mighty perfect proper regrator is an absolutely deranged perverted freak in private.)