Work Text:
"How much longer?" Scaramouche’s voice echoes slightly in the lab, laid bare on the cold table as Dottore fidgets with his insides.
Dottore does not answer him, as if he cannot even hear, his fingers touching all the places that would have a human crying for mercy. It’s an odd feeling, but not a painful one, and not something he isn’t used to, not anymore. He’s learned a lot in the weeks he’s been trapped in Dottore’s lab, nothing but a test subject for the Doctor to try things out on. He’s learned to lie here on the table for hours each day, waiting for it to be over, learned to detach his mind from the feeling of fingers inside his abdomen, the feeling of the cold metal against his back, the feeling of the cuffs that keep his hands tied down on the table above his head.
Scara tries again. "Dottore, are you almost done?"
"Quiet," Dottore says, twisting something that sends a jolt of discomfort up his spine.
Scara sighs. He’s been here for what feels like forever, the Doctor examining every part of his body, and though Dottore’s rummaging through his stomach doesn’t generally hurt him, the position does. He’s sore and stiff and wants this to be over. He shakes his head, trying to crack his neck, and accidentally jostles the Doctor’s hand.
It is only then that Dottore looks up at him, his eyes dark. "Scaramouche," he says.
Scara shrinks back. "Sorry."
He can feel something click into place, and Dottore lets out a breath, finally moving his hands away. Scara doesn’t look, preferring not to see his body in pieces, lifeless in the Doctor’s deft hands. Finally, he’s almost done. He waits for Dottore to close him back up, to make him whole again, or, at least, the closest he can be to whole. But nothing happens. Dottore just stares at him.
Scara looks at him. "Are you gonna put me back together?"
Dottore reaches for him, wraps his hand around his thigh almost possessively, and frowns. "We’re not done."
Scara groans and rolls his hips, trying to get out some of the discomfort. Dottore does not react. Instead, he moves away from the table, reaches into a cabinet, and pulls out a small bottle and a needle. He draws the liquid into the syringe, nodding to himself, and flicks it with a finger, stalking back towards him.
Scara shrinks back. "What is that?"
Dottore tilts his head. "This is a newer mixture. It’s given positive results in . . . other subjects, but I want to see how your body will react."
"What does it do?" Scara asks. A little pain will be okay. But Dottore’s gotten worse lately, started being more reckless with the drugs he gives him. He’s scared that something’s going to fuck him up real bad.
"It should bring your body an exaggerated hormonal response when exposed to stimuli," Dottore tells him.
Scara narrows his eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
The Doctor doesn’t answer him. Instead, he grabs Scara’s neck and injects the concoction right into his artificial carotid artery. Scara shouts in surprise; it burns, like Fire-Water, like lava. The mixture runs fast through his bloodstream, curling up inside and making his limbs spasm.
The feeling hits him almost immediately, a rush that leaves him warm and panting in the cold air, his body tightening up. "Wha—what was in that?" Scara slurs, his words mixing together and thoughts swirling in his head like a whirlpool. He looks up at Dottore, who blurs and ripples in his vision, all grinning pointed teeth. He watches Scara like a hawk, and Scara is powerless to stop him.
"I don’t like this," Scara says, his cheeks hot, body shaking. "Put me back together, I want to be done."
"Oh, Scaramouche," the Doctor murmurs. "I don’t remember you having a say in this. You signed yourself over to me, did you not?"
Scara whimpers. "Please."
Dottore just laughs.
"What was in it?" he asks instead, hoping to at least get an answer.
Dottore shakes his head. "I already told you."
He trembles. "What was in it, Dottore?"
Dottore grins slightly, his eyes glowing like little cracked mirrors. "A mild aphrodisiac."
Scara’s eyes widen, and he feels his stomach twist. "Motherfucker." He lunges for Dottore, forgetting for a moment that his hands are cuffed to the table, but even so, it doesn’t matter. His body is slow, sluggish, like he’s been drugged. Which, he realizes, he has.
"I don’t want—" Scara gasps as he feels heat flood between his legs. "Dottore, no!"
"I’ve also added a bit of a sedative," Dottore admits, "because I think it’ll make you easier to manage. You’re really not cooperating with me today. It’s kind of hurtful, you know, with all I do for you."
"You sick bastard," Scara pants. "I’ll fucking kill you."
Dottore smiles slightly. "I'm sure you just need more time to adjust. It’s understandable. But I’d think you’d have learned by now, empty threats don’t mean anything to me, especially when they’re coming from my dear puppet." He sighs. "Don't you want to become a god? I can give that to you."
Scaramouche doesn’t have time to reply before the Doctor’s hands are on him. They’ve had sex before, if you could call it that, clinical, experimental things Dottore has done to him to see what would happen, how his doll body would react. Dottore never tells him in advance if he’s going to put him in a situation like this anyway, but it’s his first time doing it under the influence of some drug Dottore concocted, and he’s not sure what to expect. Dottore pets up between his thighs, making him shiver, cups his little pussy in his hand and rubs his palm against it, and he gasps.
"Fuck," Scara breathes, feeling himself get wetter by the second. It’s never felt quite like this. His mind and his body are at war between themselves, half of him wanting to run, the other half suddenly wanting to stay.
"Mild my ass," Scara pants. "The fucking hell is this, Dottore?"
Dottore just smiles and writes something down on a clipboard with his other hand. Scara immediately feels his face flood with shame. What exactly is Dottore writing down? Scara wants to rip the notes out of his hand, wants to slap him in the face, punch him till he bleeds, but all he can do is lie there in a haze as Dottore pushes two fingers inside him at once.
Scara moans. "This isn’t—shit—this isn’t fair," he gasps. "I don’t wanna—ah—"
Dottore twists his fingers, pushing inside of him relentlessly, hitting his sweet spot with clinical precision every time. Scara’s mind goes blank, the wave overtaking him completely, mindless pleasure stronger than anything he’s known. Dottore scissors his fingers, stretching him out, pushes in a third, then a fourth, until Scara’s arching his back against the table, practically begging for it. His skin is feverish, his mind a blur, his vision swimming. He can faintly hear himself start to gasp, words he has no control over falling out of his mouth.
"Dottore, please, please, fuck," he hears himself crying. Tears start to drip down his cheeks like rain, hot saltwater coating his face. He hears Dottore laugh above him, knows he likes it when Scara cries. It’s sick, sadistic, but what should he expect, really? It’s Dottore.
"My little doll finally gives in, hm?" Dottore’s voice comes from far away, somewhere out of the daze of Scara’s uncontrollable mind.
Scara cries and thrashes in his grip, shaking his head, still trying to fight the overwhelming feeling. He feels sick, disgusting, unbelievably needy, as pleasure sings through his body, numbing the pain.
Scara hears the sound of more scribbling from the Doctor, which only serves to annoy him because he suddenly wants both of Dottore’s hands on him. He whines and writhes in his grip.
"Good," Dottore murmurs. "It’s working even better than I imagined. Or are you just that excited?"
Scara moans, rolls his hips, begs for more. He feels like he’s floating, half out of his body, in a dream he has no control over. Dottore brings his thumb back up to rub circles into him, pressing in harder and faster until Scara feels his stomach tighten up. "Fuck, Dottore, I'm—shit, ah, gonna—"
Scara comes with a silent scream, arching up off the table, his pussy squeezing around Dottore’s fingers. Dottore grins. "Good."
Scaramouche collapses back down onto the cold metal, his ears ringing, white flooding his vision. He whimpers. The Doctor leaves him there for a while, cuffed to the table, while he wanders off to some other part of the lab, murmuring and writing notes. Scara feels like he might break apart at the seams.
Dottore stalks back towards Scaramouche a few minutes later, his heels clicking on the floor. Scara lies there, helpless, feeling heat grow once more between his legs. He’s so, so wet. And he hates it.
Dottore returns holding a microscope slide in one hand. He unceremoniously pulls Scara’s legs apart and drags a finger through the wetness on his pussy, wiping it on the slide.
"Wh—what’s that for?" Scars slurs, his voice pathetically small and cracking. Dottore’s done this multiple times already, he doesn’t see why he needs to look at it under the microscope again.
"That’s to see if there are any visible effects of the aphrodisiac," Dottore murmurs, for once giving him a straight answer. Scara nods, resigned, as the Doctor places the slide on the counter and grabs another syringe. "And this," says the Doctor, "is another dose."
"N-no," Scara stutters, panic enveloping his body. "Please, I don’t want more, I’ve had enough."
Dottore shakes his head, drawing the aphrodisiac into the syringe with practiced hands. "Scaramouche, we’ve talked about this. Act your age and stop whining like a baby."
"Dottore," Scara’s voice breaks, tears starting to roll down his cheeks once more. "It’s too much." He can still feel the effects of the first dose, clouding his mind and making him struggle to think about anything other than getting ruined. What will happen to him when that’s doubled? His hands jerk in the cuffs above his head as he struggles away from the Doctor.
Dottore smiles a little. "Would you prefer two more instead?"
Scara sobs. "No! Please!"
"What do you say, Scaramouche?" Dottore asks, taking on the tone one might use for a child.
Scara hiccups. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"Speak clearly," Dottore says. "How do you expect anyone to have respect for you when you act like this, Harbinger?"
"I'm sorry!" he gasps. "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, s—"
Dottore raises a hand and slaps him across the face, hard. It stings, sends Scara reeling back, his head hitting the table with a loud thunk. He blinks up at Dottore through a haze of pain, his ears ringing. Hurt fills his stomach, something that feels almost like betrayal. He stifles the need to cry. Dottore's right. How could anyone respect him like this?
"Be quiet," Dottore says. He readies the syringe and grabs Scara’s neck, squeezing when he shrinks away. Scara whimpers and shuts his eyes, holding onto the bit of sanity he has left, trying to keep it for as long as he can before Dottore rips it away.
The needle stings, liquid fire burning through his veins. He thrashes on the table, feverish. The effects are much greater this time around, doubling the feeling from before. He sobs and whines, pressing his thighs together to try to get some stimulation. It hurts. He’s so wet, dripping all over the table, crying for relief. He wants something inside him so badly, any other thoughts vanish and float far away.
"Dottore," he gasps. "Please." He can barely get the words out.
Dottore looks down at him through the haze of lust blurring his vision. Dottore, Dottore, Dottore is all he can see, this unearthly beautiful, insane, unstable man leaning over him, causing him this delirium.
"Please, what?" he asks.
Scara sobs. "Please, I—hah, Dottore, help me, I need it!"
Dottore reaches down to cup his cheek, softly, gently holding him. If Scaramouche wasn’t so out of his mind, he’d be afraid, confused, terrified of this sudden change in demeanor. It’s never a good thing. But instead, he leans into the touch, moaning softly from just the feeling of contact. He can feel himself drip even more onto the metal beneath him. "Ah . . ."
Dottore chuckles from above him. "Use your words, pet. What do you need?"
Scara thinks he’s drooling. "Need you," he gasps. "Ah—huh—Dottore, please, fuck me."
He feels the change before he sees it. Dottore’s hand tightens around his jaw, his grip suddenly bruising. "Say it again," he says quietly.
Scara cries. "Please, please, want you, Dottore, just fuck me, please!"
Dottore slaps him again, hard enough that, for just a second, Scara is ripped out of his daze. Dottore’s getting off on this, isn’t he? The thought should disgust him, but he’s dragged back down again by the drug and instead feels molten heat lighting up his core.
Dottore laughs. "Fucking slut."
Scara whimpers. "Please," he begs. He can’t take it anymore. The pain is unbearable, and he can still barely move from the sedative. The world spins, covered in a haze of red, as he pants and begs Dottore to touch him. And Dottore . . . Scara’s never seen him quite like this before. There’s something in his eyes, something greedy and wildly psychotic, and it strikes up concerning feelings within him. He knows he should be afraid, knows he shouldn’t—didn’t—want this, and yet now . . .
Dottore grabs his hips and presses his thumbs in, hard enough to bruise. Scara gasps and arches his back, rolling his hips as much as he can to try to get Dottore to touch him where he needs it.
"You want it, Balladeer?" Dottore grins. "What are you?"
"I'm—I'm—ah—" Scara sobs.
"Tell me what you are." Dottore frowns and digs his fingers in harder.
"I'm a slut," Scara slurs. "I'm just a fuckin' slut . . ."
"That’s right." Dottore laughs. Then he brings a hand down hard on Scara’s pussy.
"Aah!" Scara yelps at the sudden pain, his pussy squeezing around nothing as Dottore moves forward, pulls Scara towards him. Scara wraps his legs around his waist, wishing his arms were free as well, and moans in Dottore’s ear. Fucking finally.
He can hear the sound of a zipper coming undone, clothing rustling, and Scara whines, rolling his hips, his hands twisting above his head. Logically, he shouldn’t want this. But he’s too far gone now.
And then, finally, finally, Dottore sinks down into him. Scara is already so wet and so ready that there’s hardly any resistance. His whole body tightens up, his brain absolutely flooding with pleasure. He moans, and Dottore slaps his ass. "There we go."
Dottore does not give him a moment to adjust. He grabs Scara’s waist and roughly pulls him down onto him with no regard to Scara’s comfort. Scara gasps, pain tinging the edges of his vision, as Dottore shoves himself deeper, brushing right up against his sweet spot. The pain and pleasure mix in Scara’s mind, wires crossing as his head lolls to the side from overstimulation. He cries and whines, his legs shaking in Dottore’s grip.
Dottore keeps going, shoving him up and down, already so rough, so quickly. His breath comes out in little pants, fucking him so hard he’s slammed onto the table over and over. He lifts one of Scara’s legs up higher, around his hip, and Scara nearly screams at the feeling. The aphrodisiac makes everything magnified, to the point where he can’t even tell whether he likes it or not.
"Please," he whines, "Dottore, touch me, I need more!" He aches without stimulation, he needs it, so bad.
But that’s when Dottore stops. He stills inside of Scara, who tightens around him, gasping. "No, please," he whines.
"Is this not enough for you?" Dottore growls. "Greedy little thing."
"No, I—" Scara hiccups, his eyes wide, and then he breaks down crying. Big, ugly sobs that just won’t stop. Everything is too much, he can’t handle it.
"Scara," he hears Dottore say. "Scaramouche."
Scara looks up at him through his tears, his face blurring and rippling in his limited vision. "Archons, please just touch me."
Dottore looks down at him, meeting his eyes, and for a moment his expression changes, as if his face is morphing into a look of care. He brings a hand up to cup Scara’s cheek. "Oh, my dear." His voice takes on a sickly sweet tone, patronizing, maybe, but Scara doesn’t care. He sniffles and nudges Dottore’s hand with his cheek, desperate for comfort, for release.
"Was this all a bit too much?" Dottore asks, wiping away a tear. "You want me to touch you, to make it all better, hm?"
Scara nods, suddenly feeling like a kid again. He just wants to be taken care of.
Dottore tsks, dragging his other hand down Scara’s chest, towards where he’s still buried inside of him. He needs it, he needs it, he needs it, it hurts. He whines and wiggles his hips, trying to entice the Doctor to move, to touch him, to release him from this torture.
But Dottore’s hand doesn’t go where he wants it to. Instead it ends up hovering over his still-exposed abdomen. Oh. Scaramouche forgot, but Dottore never put him back together. He’s been lying here with his inner workings exposed this whole time. But that fact doesn’t fully, completely register in his clouded mind. He’s too needy to care.
Dottore’s hand dips back down into his stomach, slowly stroking the parts inside him, making him shudder. "You want me to touch you, Scaramouche?" he asks softly.
"Y-yes," Scara says. How he wishes his hands weren’t cuffed, or he’d just touch himself. But he supposes that’s the point.
"You’re dying for it, aren’t you?" Dottore’s hand closes around one of the parts in his abdomen, Scara doesn’t know or care which one. He just whimpers and nods.
"You’re just an ungrateful little bitch, isn’t that right?"
It takes Scaramouche a second to process these words, since they’re in the same sweet, consoling tone as his others were. "N-no, Dottore—"
"This wasn’t enough for you? You want more, and why? You think you deserve it?" Dottore’s hand starts to squeeze inside of his abdomen, just enough to make Scara shift in discomfort.
He shakes his head frantically. "No, no, I'm sorry!"
Dottore grins. "I think," he says, "we should try one more experiment, hm? How about it, doll?"
Scara tries to shrink away from him, but his hands hold him close. He stares up at Dottore, blinking the wetness out of his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid bitch. Why the fuck did he do this? Didn’t he know better by now?
"Ah." Dottore’s eyes light up. "How about this: I’ll fuck you how you want, as long as you let me do what I want, too. How does that sound?"
Scara trembles. He does not speak.
"I’ll sweeten the deal." Dottore laughs. "You can tell me to stop, and I’ll stop at any time."
Scara stares up at him.
"Did I mention the other effect of this aphrodisiac?" Dottore asks him. "In all past experiments, it doesn’t start to wear off until the subject experiences an orgasm."
Scara sobs. "Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit."
Dottore smiles, sadistic. "Sounds like a deal!"
Before Scara can respond, Dottore moves inside him, and just like that, he’s gone. Dissolved into mindless pleasure, white-hot, searing through his veins with the drug, Scaramouche is taken sky-high. Dotttore fucks him hard and fast, plays with his pussy like he wanted, does all the right things, and for just a moment, Scara doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. His body goes ragdoll against the table, slamming into the metal over and over again, and he moans embarrassingly loudly, shaking in the Doctor’s grip.
But then, inevitably, Dottore’s hand starts to squeeze his insides. It doesn’t hurt too bad at first, just a dull ache while Dottore’s still slamming into him, bringing him to heaven. Scara gasps and tries to hold onto just the pleasure, which works for a little bit. But then Dottore reaches deeper inside him, grabs something and squeezes until Scara hears a little pop. Black explodes into his vision, terrifying inky blots that come before the pain does. Then it hits, the icy feeling of agony as Dottore digs his nails inside him, practically ripping out his organs.
Scaramouche screams. He can taste something metallic in his mouth, his ears are ringing, and Dottore’s still fucking him. "Take it, take it," he gasps. "My little puppet, isn’t this good? Doesn’t this drive you wild?"
Scara’s eyes roll back in his head, his breath coming out in ragged pants. "Huh, huh, huh, huh, Dottore, fuck, fuck, ah—"
He can hear the Doctor smile above him as he twists his fingers deeper into his abdomen, Scara’s artificial blood pooling in his stomach. Scara screams again, sobbing in pain, thrashes in his restraints. And yet he’s still squeezing around Dottore, his hips lifting up to meet every mind-blowing movement. He’s torn between the extremes of pleasure and pain, the drug in his veins, the fingers in his stomach, and he feels like he might pass out.
But then Scara hears a ripping sound, the sound of flesh detaching, and not in the way it’s supposed to. Dottore rips out a piece of his puppet body, dripping with blood, and holds it up above him. And that’s when Scara snaps.
"Stop, stop," he breathes. "Please, Dottore, no more! I can’t stand it!"
And this time, the Doctor listens. He pulls his fingers out of Scara’s abdomen, and pulls out of his pussy, too, leaving him gasping for breath, free of the stabbing pain, but feeling so, so empty. There’s another kind of pain then, that comes from between his legs, but Dottore smiles.
"See? I told you I’d stop. You can just lie there now."
Scara trembles on the table, cold and hot and feverish. "I wish you’d die," he sobs.
Dottore frowns. "Oh, Scara, that’s really not a nice thing to say. I didn’t even do anything wrong."
Scara stares up at the ceiling in misery, trying to fight off the effects of the aphrodisiac on his own. He just needs to come. He just needs to fucking come. But he can’t. He can’t, and he knows that Dottore has him trapped. The only way for him to get relief is to go through even more horrible pain first. That’s the experiment, he supposes. How far will he go for reprieve, and how long will he torture himself waiting?
Scara keeps himself silent for a minute, pressing his legs together to get some sort of stimulation as his brain starts to work against him once again. It wasn’t so terrible, he tells himself, it didn’t really hurt that much. He needs to be fucked so bad, it doesn’t matter if he has to go through a little pain, right? He spirals there for a while, his brain fighting itself, and Dottore does not interfere. He writes on his clipboard for a minute and then goes to organize files in the cabinet, the picture of disinterest. He lets Scara languish on the table.
Dottore ignores his writhing, his little whines and moans as his body tries to get the attention his brain is refusing. He walks around the lab, doing his work, seemingly unaffected. Scaramouche doesn’t understand this man. He was fucking him ten minutes ago, and now he walks about the lab, cleaning counters and filing papers, seemingly completely at ease and uninterested in Scara.
Scaramouche, for his part, lies there for as long as he can physically bear. Maybe, he thinks, Dottore was lying. Maybe the drug will get out of his system with time. Maybe he doesn’t need the stupid fucking orgasm. But deep down, he knows Dottore’s right. He feels just as feverish and needy as he did an hour ago. He sighs.
"Dottore," he whispers.
Dottore does not respond.
"Dottore."
Dottore continues his work across the lab.
"Dottore," Scara calls. He feels like he’s about to combust, his body on fire. He whines. "Dottore!"
Finally the Doctor looks up. "Yes, my dear?"
"Come back," Scara pleads. "Help me."
Dottore returns to his side. His expression is unreadable as he looks down at Scara. "Change your mind, doll?"
Scara looks away and nods. "Please just make me come." His voice is quiet, broken, resigned. He just wants this to be over.
Dottore grabs his hips, running his thumbs over them gently. "As you wish."
There’s a moment, then, of quiet, as Dottore rubs comforting circles down the sides of his waist and his thighs. Scara knows it won’t last, but it’s oddly nice. He sighs as Dottore undoes his clothes once again, his mouth watering in anticipation. He wants it, so bad.
Dottore pushes into him again, and Scara sobs with relief, his whole body shaking around him. Finally, finally, he’s getting what he needs. He moans, wrapping his legs around Dottore’s waist. "Thank you, thank you," he breathes.
Dottore just laughs and starts to move once again. It’s hard and fast, giving Scara no time to get used to the sudden stimulation as Dottore shoves himself back inside. It’s like they never stopped. Scara never wants it to end, his feverish body bouncing on the table, limp with relief.
"Yes, yes," he hears himself crying. "Just like that, right—nngh, right there!"
Dottore laughs, making his entire body light up with white-hot pleasure. He slips a hand back into his stomach, though, and starts digging his fingers into his insides, giving Scara the burning pain he’d just been trying to escape before. Scara sobs a little, but he doesn’t say anything, trying to get his body to come as fast as possible so this torture can end. Dottore seems to take this as encouragement, because he squeezes harder, sharp pain thrumming through Scara’s body.
"You can take this," Dottore whispers. "Look at how well you’re doing for me now. A little pain isn’t so bad, hm?"
Scara’s hands twist in the cuffs above him, writhing with the agony and the pleasure. A hysterical laugh tumbles out of him, wretched and harsh, echoing through the lab. He feels delirious, feels like maybe he’s as just crazy as Dottore. And yeah, maybe he is. He rolls his hips, lifting them up the best he can to meet Dottore each time, jerks under his fingers as he twists and snaps and breaks his insides.
"What a good little puppet," Dottore murmurs. "Just a fucking toy for me, hah, isn’t that right?"
"Yes," Scara gasps. He can finally feel it, the wave of his orgasm so close he can almost reach it, grasping with his fingers into thin air. "Yes, I am, Dottore, let me come, please, let me come!"
Dottore’s nails rake through his abdomen, and he howls, but he can’t stop. He’s so close, so close, so close. Pain whites out his vision, stronger than the pleasure, stronger than anything else, but at this point he can’t speak anymore anyway. His words come out a jumbled up mess, sobbing and moaning as he tries to get away from Dottore, away from the agony. And yet he’s almost there. Just a few seconds now, and he’ll be free.
Scara gasps as Dottore twists his fingers at the same time as he slams into him, and holy fuck, sparks explode behind his eyelids. Dottore squeezes his insides even tighter as he grabs his hips with his other hand, chasing his release. Scara collapses against the table in agony, sobbing, struggling against him as he's pushed into overwhelm, his mind pulled to the brink of sanity between pleasure and pain.
Scaramouche only lasts a few more seconds before he tightens up around Dottore, crying out, on the very edge. "F-fuck, Dottore, fuck, I, huh, huh, huh, gonna come, gonna come, gonna-!"
His eyes roll back and his mouth drops open in a gasp as he comes hard, white blurring out his vision. He hasn’t come like this . . . ever, maybe. He can almost feel his soul leave his body, he’s high, addicted, gasping and trembling, his body jerking under Dottore’s. He pants, drooling, fingers curling above his head, hips shaking as Dottore continues to move. It’s only a minute longer before Dottore comes too, finishing inside him with a soft sigh. They stay there, connected for a moment, as Dottore’s breathing returns to normal, and then he moves off Scaramouche, pulling out of him slowly, and starts to clean things up.
Scara lies there, shaking, for a long, long time, as his body tries to slowly come down from the high. He can feel his pussy dripping onto the table below him. He’s cold. Everything starts to hurt, but in a better way than before. He’s sore, exhausted, but the drug is finally starting to leave his system.
Dottore wipes him up, then begins the task of putting his body back together again. He takes a replacement for the piece he ruined and clicks it back into place, fixing up his insides and closing him back up like nothing happened. He unlocks the handcuffs and lets Scara sit up, finally, and he groans at how light-headed he feels.
Dottore goes to sit down next to the table, writing up a report in his notes. Scaramouche watches him dazedly, in a haze, as the minutes tick by. He does not look up, does not even acknowledge Scara's existence. This is how it always is when he is finished with him. Scaramouche sits there for a while, lost in his thoughts.
Finally, when he feels strong enough, Scara gets up and takes his clothes out of the basket by the table, slowly putting them back on over his bruised and tired body. He wipes his eyes, swallowing, and then he leaves the lab, and makes his way back to his room.
He collapses on the bed and checks the time. He’s been on that table in the lab for seven hours. At least, he consoles himself, he has until next morning to rest. His eyelids flutter, sleep on the horizon. It will be worth it in the end, he knows. It has to be. Today was a hard day. Tomorrow will be better.