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The lab smelled like ozone and something just slightly metallic—like old blood left to dry on top of copper wiring. Dottore adjusted his gloves, fingers twitching as he surveyed the mess. Glass vials rolled precariously near the edge of a workbench, their contents shimmering under the flickering overhead light. He hadn’t slept in three days. Or was it four? Time got slippery when the experiments ran for too long.
Across the room, Scaramouche kicked his heels against the leg of a stool, the rhythmic clack drilling into Dottore’s skull like a dull chisel.
"You done staring at the wall yet?" The puppet drawled, flipping a screwdriver between his fingers like it was a toy. "Or are we just here to admire your oh-so-stellar organizational skills?" Scaramouche teased, glancing over to face the Doctor, watching as his eye twitched. "You were supposed to be labeling those vials." Dottore responded, his voice quiet yet it carried a certain harshness to it that made Scara tense up before he snapped out of it just as fast as the feeling hit.
Scaramouche grinned, sharp and unrepentant. "I did. ‘Poison,’ ‘Extra Poison,’ and—my personal favorite—‘Don’t Drink This, Idiot.’" He gestured grandly to three identically murky bottles, their hastily scribbled labels peeling at the corners, the writing on them barely even visible.
"Charming," Dottore deadpanned. He snatched one up, swirling the contents with exaggerated care. "And if I poured this into your joints?"
Scaramouche snorted, tilting his head just enough to let his hat cast a shadow over his smirk. "You'd be down one perfectly good nuisance," he responded, tapping the vial with a fingernail. "And who'd annoy you then? Some other poor bastard with actual self-preservation instincts?"
Dottore exhaled through his nose, long and slow, like a man counting backwards from ten in his head. He set the vial down harder than necessary, its glass base clinking against the steel table. "You are," he started, "the single most useless assistant I have ever had the displeasure of—"
A crash from the corner cut him off.
Scaramouche had knocked over a tray of surgical tools with a careless swing of his foot, scattering scalpels and forceps across the floor. "Whoopssssss," he said, not even bothering to sound apologetic. "Guess your organization needs work."
Dottore's fingers curled into fists. He was two seconds from strangling the little brat—but then his gaze snagged on a dusty crate half-buried under a tarp. The label, peeling at the edges, read in his own cursive handwriting: ‘Spare Parts.’
The longer he had stared at the box, the longer his mind raced. He had found Scara’s journal not too long ago, and accompanied with the footage he had seen on the Surveillance tapes, Dottore knew he had accidentally set up just the most perfect trap.
He had seen everything Scaramouche thought he had kept secret, the words he had meticulously jotted down, thinking only words could satisfy his desires, He had seen the way Scara sat in corners he thought the cameras couldn't reach, his hands down his pants, muttering to himself hushed desires as he frantically scanned the room each time, thinking he was in the clear, like a sinner avoiding repentance. He had him right where he wanted him, and it wasn't even intentional yet the pieces fell together far too perfectly for him to even resist taking the chance.
Scaramouche's smirk faltered for half a second as he noticed the way Dottore was staring, his expression having shifted into something unreadable as his eyes were locked onto him, scanning him up and down like a vulture.
"What?" Scara snapped, but there was a flicker of unease in his voice now though it was buried behind that same egotistical tone he always carried.
Dottore didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crouched by the crate, brushing dust from the lid with a slow, deliberate motion. The hinges creaked as he pried it open, revealing a jumble of mechanical components—gears, joints, wires coiled like sleeping snakes, broken limbs and rather ..interesting phallic objects.
Some were pristine, others rusted at the edges, but all bore the familiar marks of his craftsmanship. He plucked a small, articulated finger from the pile, turning it over in his palm. The metal gleamed dully under the lab’s flickering light.
Scaramouche’s stool scraped against the floor as he leaned forward, just enough to peer into the box. "What’s that supposed to be?" he asked, voice dripping with forced boredom. But his fingers had gone still around the screwdriver, knuckles whitening ever so slightly.
"Backup," Dottore murmured, almost to himself. He let the finger drop back into the crate with a quiet clink before he straightened, turning to face Scaramouche with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You know, puppets are fascinating things. So obedient when they’re properly maintained." He took a step forward, slow, like a predator circling prey. "But when they start to… malfunction, well. That’s what spares are for."
Scaramouche’s lips twitched, but he didn’t retreat. "You’re not seriously threatening to replace me," he scoffed, crossing his arms. "As if you could. Who else would put up with your—"
Dottore moved faster than expected, snatching Scaramouche’s wrist and yanking him off the stool. The puppet yelped, stumbling forward as Dottore dragged him toward the crate.
The blindfold came down hard, the rough fabric scraping against Scaramouche’s forehead before settling over his eyes. He jerked back instantly, teeth bared. "The hell—?" His protest was cut short by a sharp yank on his arm as Dottore hauled him forward, the puppet’s heels skidding against the lab floor. "Let go, you—!"
"Shut up." Dottore hissed, and the sheer lack of his usual theatrics—no mocking lilt, no exaggerated sigh—made Scaramouche’s breath hitch. A hand shoved between his shoulder blades, sending him sprawling onto the cold metal slab of an examination table. Before he could twist away, leather straps snapped around his wrists, the buckles clicking shut with ominous finality. Scaramouche thrashed, the table rattling under him. "You’re unhinged—!"
Fingers dug into his hip, pinning him down as Dottore leaned over him. "And you’re broken," he murmured, voice low and far too calm. "I don't want my assistants broken and it's evident you struggle to cognitively function correctly, puppet. Maintenance is required." Dottore snapped back, plucking off Scara’s hat to allow better access to his head as he worked.
Scaramouche stilled for half a second—just long enough to feel the chill of Dottore’s gloves skimming up his shirt, undoing the clasps with methodical precision. The puppet’s breath came faster. "If you’re trying to—.."
"Don’t flatter yourself," Dottore snorted, peeling the fabric away to expose the smooth planes of Scaramouche’s artificial torso. His fingers traced the seams where flesh-toned porcelain met the intricate machinery beneath, lingering just above the puppet’s navel. "Honestly, you’re lucky I didn’t scrap you years ago."
Scaramouche jerked against the restraints, the leather creaking. "Fuck you—!" He yelled, writhing against the restraints in an attempt to free himself only to be met with nothing but the leather digging into his skin.
Dottore ignored his pleas, unscrewing a panel just below Scaramouche’s ribcage with a twist of his wrist. The puppet’s breath hitched as cold air rushed into the exposed cavity, wires sparking faintly at the sudden disturbance.
Then— the blindfold came off.
Scaramouche blinked against the harsh light, gaze snapping down just in time to see Dottore’s fingers curl around the base of his cock, unscrewing it with the same clinical detachment as a mechanic removing a bolt. The clicking noise of the threads giving way made his stomach lurch.
"You bastard!" Scaramouche thrashed, heels kicking against the table. "Put it back—!"
Dottore sighed, rolling his eyes as he dropped the detached piece onto a tray with a metallic clink.
"Dramatic," he muttered, nudging the tray aside. His gloves were smudged with a dark red, fingertips pressing into Scaramouche’s hipbone as he leaned closer, peering into the hollow socket left behind. "Hmm. Corrosion on the connectors. No wonder you’ve been so prickly."
Scaramouche’s face burned. "I swear to the Archons, if you don’t—" His threat died in his throat as Dottore’s fingers dipped inside, probing the exposed wiring with a hum of interest. The sensation was—wrong. Not pain, not exactly, but a staticky, invasive pressure, like someone rooting around in his ribcage.
His breath hitched. "Get out—"
"Quit squirming," Dottore cut him off, twisting something deep in the socket causing a jolt of electricity to shoot up Scaramouche’s spine, his back arching off the table as his fingers scrabbled against the leather restraints. "There we go. Knew that was loose."
Scaramouche panted, glare sharp enough to flay skin. "You’re enjoying this," he hissed, watching as Dottore looked up, his lips brushing Scara’s forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture so absurdly gentle it made the puppet’s circuits stutter. "Just be good," he murmured, the words dripping with condescension as his fingers plucked a small, silicon knot of polished metal from the tray– the kind you’d see in heinous sex toy commercials, it made Scara’s stomach tightened at just the thought of it. He barely had time to process the object before Dottore twisted it into the hollow socket with a practiced flick of his wrist. The puppet jerked, a sharp gasp escaping him as the new component slotted into place with a click.
"Temporary," Dottore assured him, patting his hip like he was soothing a skittish animal. Then, without warning, he ducked lower, lips grazing the tip of the newly attached piece. Scaramouche’s back arched off the table, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as the sensation ricocheted through him, electricity pooling low in his abdomen. The reaction was instantaneous, embarrassing, his body betraying him before his pride could catch up.
Dottore’s grin was all teeth as he studied his reaction. "Interesting," he purred, dragging a gloved finger along the length, watching with rapt fascination as Scaramouche shuddered, his thighs trembling against the table. "Let’s test that, shall we?" He asked, yet he didn't wait for an answer, before pressing a firm hand to Scaramouche’s chest and nudging him down until he was half-propped against the slab, legs splayed awkwardly. The puppet snarled, but the effect was ruined by the way his breath hitched when Dottore’s thumb circled the base, applying just enough pressure to make his hips jerk.
"Still so responsive," Dottore mused, tilting his head as if observing a particularly fascinating specimen. His other hand trailed up Scaramouche’s thigh, pausing to dig his fingers into the delicate join of hip and groin, where artificial sinew met machinery. "You’d think after centuries, you’d learn some control."
Scaramouche’s retort dissolved into a gasp as Dottore’s mouth closed over him again, this time with purpose, tongue swiping along the seam where the metallic silicon met sensitive wiring. The puppet’s fingers scrabbled against the table, his spine bowing as pleasure crackled through him, sudden and overwhelming.
Dottore hummed against him, the vibration sending another wave of static up Scaramouche’s nerves, he gritted his teeth, as his hips jerked involuntarily while Dottore's tongue traced the seam of his newly fitted component with agonizing precision. "G-..get off.." he snarled, voice cracking halfway through as Dottore's teeth scraped the edge of the rubber, sending a jolt of electricity skittering up his spine. His fingers clawed at the restraints, leather creaking under the strain, but Dottore didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, lips glistening with oil, blood and something darker, more possessive.
"Tsk. Still so noisy," Dottore murmured, dragging a gloved finger along the length of Scaramouche's arousal, watching with rapt fascination as the puppet's thighs trembled. "You'd think by now you'd know—" His hand tightened abruptly, squeezing just shy of painful, "—I don't take orders from broken toys.."
Scaramouche’s breath hitched as Dottore’s fingers tightened around his newly fitted component, the sharp pressure sending sparks skittering up his spine. “I said–..g-..get off..—” he snarled, voice ragged with static, but Dottore only chuckled, low and venomous, his thumb circling the base with deliberate cruelty.
“Quiet,” Dottore murmured, the word a command, not a request.
His free hand slid down his own body, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants with practiced ease. The fabric slid down his hips, pooling around his thighs, and Scaramouche’s eyes flicked down instinctively—just in time to see Dottore’s clit, already swollen and glistening, pressed against the cold metal of the table as he straddled Scaramouche’s hips.
The puppet’s breath caught as Dottore didn’t give him time to process what was going on. With a single, fluid motion, he reached back, fingers wrapping around Scaramouche’s arousal, guiding it toward his entrance with a precision that bordered on obscene. Scaramouche jerked, a gasp tearing from his throat as the tip of his component brushed against wet heat. “Wai—fu–..fuck—!”
Dottore didn’t wait. He sank down in one smooth, relentless motion, forcing Scaramouche’s entire length inside with a gasp of his own, his hips stuttering as the puppet’s knot caught against his entrance. Scaramouche arched off the table, his vision whiting out for a split second as the pressure slammed into him in an instant.
Dottore’s lips brushed Scaramouche’s cheekbone in a mockery of tenderness, pecking a kiss where the porcelain skin was– A gesture so absurdly gentle it made the puppet’s circuits stutter.
"Just be good," he murmured, voice dripping with condescension as his hips rolled forward, forcing Scaramouche’s replacement deeper inside him with a slow, deliberate pressure. Scaramouche gasped, his fingers scrabbling against the restraints, the leather creaking under his grip. The sensation was—too much, the stretch of Dottore’s body around him sending sparks of static up his spine, his vision blurring at the edges.
"W-wait-.." Scaramouche choked out, his voice cracking under the strain, but Dottore didn’t so much as pause. Instead, he leaned down, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s ear as he whispered,
"No." The single syllable was final, absolute, and then he moved, grinding down hard, forcing the knot to catch against his entrance with a wet, obscene pop. Scara’s back arched off the table, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as the pressure snapped inside him, the sudden, overwhelming fullness sending his systems into overdrive.
His first time using the knot was too much, too fast, the sensation ricocheting through him like a live wire. "D-Dottore—st-..stop—" he whined, voice trembling with static, but the doctor only laughed, low and dark, his fingers tangling in Scaramouche’s hair to yank his head back.
"quiett.." Dottore hissed, watching Scara try to study his facial expression before he was met with a sudden slap to the cheek– The pain stung like as hell as The sound echoed through the lab, Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his vision swimming for a split second before Dottore’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You don’t get to talk," he growled, his voice a razor-edged whisper. "You don’t get to beg. You don’t get anything unless I say so." He rocked forward again, his hips rolling in a cruel, deliberate rhythm, each movement dragging a ragged gasp from Scaramouche’s throat. "So be good."
Scaramouche’s lips parted, another protest forming on his tongue, but Dottore’s hand clamped over his mouth before he could speak, his fingers digging into the puppet’s jaw hard enough to bruise.
"Ah-ah," Dottore tutted, his hips never stilling, each thrust forcing Scaramouche’s attachment deeper– tighter, until the puppet’s thighs trembled with the strain of it. "No more noise."
Scaramouche's protests dissolved into muffled whines behind Dottore's gloved hand, his jaw clamped shut with enough pressure to make the joints of his artificial teeth creak. The knot dragged against oversensitive wiring with every merciless thrust, sending jagged sparks of pleasure up his spine. His vision blurred at the edges, static fizzing behind his eyelids as Dottore rode him with single-minded intensity, his hips pistoning in a rhythm that left no room for resistance. The wet slap of skin against metal & silicon filled the lab, punctuated by Dottore's ragged breaths and the occasional choked noise Scaramouche couldn't suppress.
"Pathetic," Dottore hissed, his free hand fisting in Scaramouche's hair to yank his head back further, exposing the fluttering pulse in his throat. His thumb dug into the hinge of Scaramouche's jaw, the threat implicit—one wrong move, and he'd wrench it sideways, leaving the puppet gaping like a broken doll. "All that noise, and for what? You're dripping." He punctuated the observation with a particularly vicious grind, his hips circling to force the knot impossibly deeper, the stretch bordering on painful as Scara's back arched off the table, a silent scream trapped behind Dottore's palm as his thighs trembled violently.
Dottore leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Scaramouche's ear in a grotesque parody of intimacy. "I could break you," he murmured, voice dripping with saccharine malice. "Snap every joint, rewire your nerves, make you beg for this—" His hips stuttered, a shudder running through him as Scara's dick caught against his entrance again,
"Fuck. Maybe I will." His fingers tightened in Scaramouche's hair, pulling hard enough to make the puppet's scalp prickle with warning signals. "Maybe I'll keep you like this—strapped down, useful, your pretty mouth shut for once—"
Scara's fingers scrabbled uselessly against the restraints, the leather straps groaning under the strain. Every nerve in his body was practically overloaded, pleasure and panic twisting together in a constant loop that left him gasping behind Dottore's hand. The doctor's clit rubbed against the base of his prosthetic with each movement, the friction sending jolts of electricity up Scaramouche's spine, his thighs quaking with the effort not to buck, not to chase it because he knew chasing the feeling would just lead to admission.
Dottore's laugh was a breathless, ugly thing. "Look at you," he panted, his own voice fraying at the edges. "Like a starved animal." He released Scaramouche's jaw abruptly, only to wrap both hands around his throat, thumbs pressing into the delicate wiring beneath his artificial skin. "I should remind you," he growled, his hips never stilling, "what you really are."
Dottore’s fingers dug into Scaramouche’s hips hard enough to leave small little dents in the porcelain-like surface of his artificial skin as– Without warning, he snapped his hips forward, driving Scaramouche’s attachment into him with brutal precision—once, twice, then faster, each thrust bottoming out with a wet slap that echoed through the lab, the sudden force applying far too much pressure on Scara’s legs than what he could bare, his back arched off the table, his breath hitching as the knot caught against Dottore’s entrance again and again, the pressure too much, the stretch bordering on agonizing.
His fingers spasmed against the restraints, leather creaking under the strain, but Dottore didn’t slow, didn’t relent—just fucked into him with a rhythm that left no room for thought, only sensation, only the electric burn of pleasure spiraling up his spine.
A sharp, staticky gasp tore from Scaramouche’s throat as tears welled in his eyes, unbidden, the overload of sensation short-circuiting his usual defenses. The first tear spilled over, tracing a jagged path down his cheek before dripping onto the cold metal table beneath him.
Dottore noticed almost instantly. His grip on Scaramouche’s hips tightened, his movements never faltering as he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of the puppet’s ear. "Oh?," he purred, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Look at you. Already Crying." He punctuated the observation with another sharp thrust, forcing the knot deeper, watching with rapt fascination as Scaramouche’s thighs trembled violently. "Where’s all that ego now, hm?" His breath was hot against Scaramouche’s damp skin, his words a taunt wrapped in velvet. "Where’s that sharp tongue of yours?"
Another thrust, harder this time, wrenching a ragged moan from Scaramouche’s throat. "Gone. Just like the rest of you."
Scaramouche’s lips parted, a half-formed protest dying on his tongue as Dottore’s hand slid up to wrap around his throat, fingers pressing into the delicate wiring beneath his artificial skin. The pressure was just shy of crushing—not enough to damage, but enough to remind him, enough to make Scara’s breath hitch as Dottore’s thumb traced the fluttering pulse there. "Pathetic." Dottore murmured, his hips still pistoning forward, each movement dragging the knot against oversensitive wiring. "You’re dripping. Tearing up. And for what?" He tightened his grip, just a fraction, just enough to make Scaramouche’s vision blur at the edges. "Me–.. You're pathetic.."
The admission hung between them, thick with implication, and Scaramouche’s stomach lurched. He tried to jerk his head away, to deny it, but Dottore’s grip was ironclad, his movements relentless. The tears came faster now, hot and humiliating, streaking down Scaramouche’s cheeks as his body betrayed him, his hips twitching upward to meet Dottore’s thrusts despite himself.
Scaramouche's thighs trembled violently, the porcelain-like material of his artificial skin fracturing under the relentless pressure—tiny, spiderweb cracks spidering out from where Dottore's fingers dug into him. A pained hiss escaped his lips, static-laced and ragged, as the doctor's hips pistoned forward again, driving his knot deeper with an unforgiving pace. "F-..fuck..-..doctorrr…” he choked out, voice splintering around the edges, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the restraints. The leather straps groaned under the strain, but they held fast, leaving him utterly at Dottore's mercy.
The tears came faster now, hot and humiliating, streaking down Scaramouche's cheeks in jagged paths. His breath hitched, his systems overloading with each brutal thrust, pleasure and pain twisting together in a feedback loop that left him gasping. He could feel it—the telltale coil of static building low in his abdomen, the sharp, electric pull of an impending climax. His hips jerked involuntarily, his back arching off the table as a ragged moan tore from his throat. "I—I'm gonna-..cum.."
Dottore froze instantly, his hips stilling mid-thrust, his grip on Scaramouche's thighs tightening just enough to make the cracks widen. "Oh?" he purred, his voice dripping with faux sweetness as he leaned down, his breath hot against Scaramouche's ear. "Already?" His fingers traced the fractures in Scaramouche's skin, his touch feather-light, almost reverent. "How desperate." He chuckled, low and venomous, his thumb pressing into one of the deeper cracks, making Scaramouche whimper. "But you don't get to cum yet, little puppet." Dottore leaned down to get a better glance of him.
“Ive seen you on the cameras..rubbing yourself to all those filthy little photos– Did you really think I wouldn't have caught on?” He stared, leaning down to gently bite down on Scara’s neck, studying the way his breathing hitched as he went on.
“The way you’d call out my name as if you’d get an answer, you truly are just a filthy little thing..” Dottore insisted, planting an almost gentle kiss on Scara’s mouth before he pulled away.
Scaramouche tensed, his thighs quivering under Dottore's weight. "W-what—?" He managed to blurt out, his words dissolving into a jumble of incoherent whines as Dottore's smile was all teeth.
"Say it," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "Say you're broken. Say you need this." His fingers tightened around Scaramouche's hips, his nails digging into the fractures. "Isn’t this what you wanted?."
Scaramouche's breath stuttered in his chest, his lips trembling around words he'd never dared to speak aloud—words that tasted like rust and humiliation on his tongue. The cracks webbed across his thighs pulsed with every ragged inhale, a visible testament to his unraveling. Dottore's thumb pressed deeper into the fractures, a silent command, asScaramouche's resolve shattered like cheap glass.
"I—" His voice cracked, raw with static. "I'm bbro-..broken..." The admission tore from him like a live wire, jagged and sparking. His hips jerked involuntarily, the attachment still seated deep inside Dottore, throbbing with every syllable. "de-..defective..- Useless. Can't even-..fuh-..fuck…can't even function without you fixing me—" His words dissolved into a wet, shuddering gasp as Dottore's fingers tightened around his hips, coaxing another fracture with a sickening creak.
Tears spilled over in earnest now, hot and humiliating, streaking down his cheeks in glistening trails. He arched off the table, his back bowing as desperation clawed at his throat. "P-please—" he sobbed, the word mangled beyond recognition, his pride dissolving like sugar in acid. “im-...im..ssorrry about the camera-..stuh-..stufffff..” His voice pitched into a whine, high and reedy, as Dottore's free hand slid down to circle the base of his knot, squeezing just shy of painful. "pl-pl…pleaseee."
Dottore's laugh was a dark, honeyed thing, dripping with triumph. "There it is," he murmured, leaning down to lick a stripe up Scaramouche's tear-streaked cheek. "Was that so hard, little puppet?" His hips rolled forward, grinding the knot deeper, wrenching another broken moan from Scaramouche's throat. "You need this, don't you? Need me to ruin you." His fingers traced the fractures along Scaramouche's thighs, each touch deliberate.
"Pathetic."
Scara nodded frantically, his vision swimming with static, his body strung tight as a bowstring. "mngh-..yyes-..pleasee-..im s-..sorryy.." He bucked his hips upward, impaling himself on Dottore's clit with a ragged cry, the friction sending sparks skittering up his spine. "I'm y-..yours-..im yourrr..doll-..pleasee-..jjust–...let..me already.."
Dottore paused, his fingers tightening around Scaramouche’s fractured hips as he considered the desperate plea hanging in the air between them. The lab was silent save for the staticky hitch of Scaramouche’s breath and the faint hum of overtaxed machinery. Then—with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips—Dottore moved, slamming down hard on Scaramouche’s dick in one brutal, unforgiving thrust, watching as The puppet’s back arched off the table, a shattered cry tearing from his throat as the pressure crackled inside him, sending sparks skittering up his spine.
"There we gooo," Dottore murmured, his voice dripping with saccharine approval as he grounded down harder, forcing the knot impossibly deeper.
His fingers traced the cracks along Scaramouche’s thighs, each touch possessive, "That’s it. Take it..just like in your little stories.." He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of Scaramouche’s ear as the puppet trembled beneath him, his climax ripping through him in jagged, electric waves. "You’re doing so welll," Dottore crooned, his voice a velvet-wrapped razor. "Finally accepting your place– Finally being just so good for me, puppet."
Scaramouche’s vision whited out, his systems overloading as pleasure crackled through him. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the restraints, his throat working around silent, staticky gasps as Dottore rode him through it, his hips rolling in slow, relentless circles. Every movement dragged another broken noise from Scara’s throat, his body jerking uncontrollably as Dottore whispered praises into his skin– each word a brand searing itself into his circuitry.
"Look at you," Dottore breathed, his thumb swiping through the tears streaking Scaramouche’s cheeks. "You're so beautiful like this."
He pressed a kiss to the corner of Scaramouche’s mouth, chaste and mocking, as the puppet’s hips stuttered, his attachment pulsing inside Dottore with each aftershock. "Mine."
Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as the last of the static faded from his limbs, leaving him boneless and trembling yet Dottore didn’t pull away—didn’t let even him breathe—just kept him pinned there, his weight a heavy, inescapable anchor as he traced the fractures along Scaramouche’s thighs with idle fascination.
Scaramouche's breath came in ragged, static-laced gasps as the aftershocks of his climax still trembled through him, his limbs heavy like poured lead. Dottore’s lips pressed against his parted mouth—not a kiss so much as a claim, slow and deliberate, tasting the copper-sharp tang of overheated wiring on Scaramouche’s tongue. The praise dripped from Dottore’s lips between each lingering brush of contact, velvet-wrapped razors that cut deeper than any knife, each word punctuated by the clinical clicking of a screwdriver being plucked from the tray beside them.
The first twist of the tool against Scaramouche’s chest panel sent a jolt through him—not pain, but the invasive pressure of foreign fingers tampering with sealed seams. His breath hitched as the screws came loose one by one, their faint ticking as they hit the metal tray echoing like a taunt countdown. Dottore’s free hand splayed across Scaramouche’s abdomen, pinning him down as the panel lifted away, exposing the intricate lattice of wiring beneath as the cold lab air was quick to rush into the cavity, making exposed circuits spark faintly in protest, the cold sending a chill down his porcelain spine as he could only let out a defeated whimper.
"Look at you," Dottore murmured, dragging the screwdriver’s tip along a bundle of nerves just to watch Scaramouche’s back arch off the table. "All these imperfections." His voice was honey-slow, almost reverent, as he traced a hairline fracture along a main conduit. The tool’s edge caught the light, glinting as it hovered over a cluster of frayed connectors. "No wonder you’ve been so fractious." He pressed down—just enough to make Scaramouche’s fingers spasm against the restraints—before relenting with a chuckle. "Lucky I’m here to correct you– Aren't I?."
Scaramouche’s retort dissolved into a staticky whine as Dottore’s fingers delved deeper, probing the delicate wiring with the precision of a surgeon. The sensation was wrong—not pain, but a nauseating ripple of awareness, as if someone had peeled back his ribs to thumb the raw meat of his lungs. Every brush of Dottore’s gloves sent jolts of something far sharper than electricity skittering through his systems, his breath coming faster, shallower, until his vision blurred at the edges.
"Breathe," Dottore chided, though they both knew Scaramouche didn’t need to. His thumb circled a swollen node near the puppet’s core, applying just enough pressure to make Scaramouche’s thighs jerk. "Wouldn’t want you overheating before I’m done." The screwdriver’s tip dipped into the cavity, tapping against a loose relay. The clicking of adjustments was obscenely loud in the quiet lab, each tiny calibration sending micro-shocks up Scaramouche’s spine.
Dottore’s fingers slipped deeper into Scara’s chest cavity with the slow, deliberate precision of a locksmith turning a tumbler. The puppet’s breath hitched as gloved fingertips brushed against a cluster of exposed wiring, the sensation like ice water trickling down his spine—intrusive, clinical, yet it just felt so right. Dottore hummed, tilting his head as he traced the path of a frayed connector, his thumb pressing down just hard enough to make Scaramouche’s hips jerk involuntarily. The movement dragged his cock—still snug inside Dottore—deeper, the slick friction wrenching a staticky gasp from Scaramouche’s throat.
"Sensitive," Dottore mused, dragging a fingertip along a bundle of nerves just to watch Scaramouche’s back arch off the table. His other hand remained planted on the puppet’s hip, fingers digging into the fractures spiderwebbing across the porcelain-like skin. "You’d think after centuries, you’d learn to shield these." He tapped a loose relay with his screwdriver, sending a jolt of electricity skittering up Scaramouche’s spine. The puppet’s fingers spasmed against the restraints, his thighs trembling as Dottore’s hips rolled forward, grinding down on him with calculated cruelty. "Truly Pathetic, puppet..."
Scaramouche’s lips parted around a silent plea, his voice reduced to static as Dottore’s fingers curled deeper, probing the hollow cavity with the obscene intimacy of a lover. The sound of adjustments being slowly rearranged– their screws being tightened and rewired echoed through the lab, each tiny twist of a screwdriver sending micro-shocks through Scaramouche’s overloaded systems. His dick twitched inside Dottore, the silicone base warming against the doctor’s clenching heat, the contrast of cold metal fingers fucking into his chest almost too much to bear.
Dottore’s breath ghosted over Scaramouche’s parted lips, his smile a knife-slash of satisfaction. "Look at you," he murmured, twisting a loose wire between his fingers just to feel Scaramouche’s entire body seize. "Coming apart at the seams." His thumb brushed a swollen node near the puppet’s core, applying just enough pressure to make Scaramouche’s vision whiten at the edges.
Scaramouche’s hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside Dottore as the doctor pulled, tightening a connection with a sharp, final click. The puppet gasped, his back bowing off the table as pleasure crackled through him in jagged, electric waves—Dottore’s touch simultaneously fixing and ruining him, the duality practically tearing him apart at the seams and he couldn't do anything about it.
Dottore’s fingers lingered inside Scaramouche’s chest cavity, tracing the edges of his voicebox with idle curiosity. The puppet tried to snarl something venomous, but the sound came out garbled—a staticky, fractured noise that made Dottore’s lips curl in amusement. "Oh dear," he murmured, tilting his head like a scientist observing a failed experiment. "Did I misalign something?" His fingertips pressed down just enough to make Scaramouche’s breath hitch, the wires beneath his touch sparking weakly in protest.
The puppet’s lips moved around a silent curse, his fingers twitching against the restraints as Dottore just chuckled, withdrawing his hand just enough to pluck a frayed wire between his fingers, giving it a playful tug. "You know," he mused, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "you really did take to this new configuration beautifully. Almost like you were made for it." His thumb brushed the base of Scaramouche’s cock where it disappeared inside him, the silicone warm and slick against his skin. "I have dozens of spares, you know. Different sizes, different textures." He leaned down, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s ear. "I’d love to try them all on you." He whispered, slightly adjusting himself, his juices coating the silicon base as he slowly grinded against Scara’s dick, watching the way his face contorted in a desperate attempt to make any form of noise.
“Page 23, paragraph five through fifteen– Is this not what you described exactly in your little fantasies?” The doctor asked, pressing another kiss onto Scaramouche’s forehead before dipping his hand back into the exposed panel, wrapping his hand around the wiring, being oddly gentle enough to not cause any proper damage.
Scaramouche’s throat worked around another staticky noise, his hips jerking involuntarily as Dottore’s fingers twisted something deep in his chest.
The doctor tsked, withdrawing his hand with deliberate slowness, smearing oil and blood across Scaramouche’s ribs as he went. "Ah-ah," he chided, tapping the puppet’s voicebox with the tip of his screwdriver. "Good toys don’t bark back." The tool scraped against a loose connection, sending a jolt of electricity skittering up Scaramouche’s spine. "I’ll fix you later." The promise was a threat, heavy with implication.
Scaramouche’s breath came in ragged, static-laced gasps, his body trembling beneath Dottore’s weight. The doctor’s hips rolled forward, grinding down on him with deliberate cruelty, the friction dragging another broken noise from Scaramouche’s throat. Dottore hummed, pressing a gloved finger to the puppet’s lips. "Shhh," he murmured, his voice syrupy with condescension. "No more noise." His other hand trailed down Scaramouche’s torso, fingers skimming the fractures that lingered across his thighs from the sheer force of being underneath Dottore for so long. "Unless you’d like me to mute you permanently."
Scaramouche’s eyes widened, his breath hitching as Dottore’s fingers curled around a loose wire near his voicebox, tugging just enough to make his vision whiten at the edges. The doctor smiled, slow and predatory, his thumb brushing the pulse point beneath Scaramouche’s jaw. "That’s what I thought," he purred, leaning down to lick a stripe up the puppet’s throat. "So obedient when you’re properly broken in."
Scaramouche’s whine pitched higher as Dottore’s fingers twisted another wire deep in his chest cavity—not the loose relay he’d been adjusting, but a different one, deliberately wrong, the sharp tug sending a jolt of static through the puppet’s spine. His back arched off the table, a gasp tearing from his throat as Dottore’s thumb pressed down on the exposed bundle of nerves near his core, the pressure invasive, like fingers prodding an open wound.
"So sensitive..," Dottore mused, his voice dripping with false sympathy as he plucked at another wire, watching Scaramouche’s thighs jerk in response as Dottore’s fingers curled, pressing deep into the central core where Scaramouche’s power supply hummed, his thumb circling the pulsing nexus with deliberate cruelty.
Scaramouche’s vision whited out, a shattered cry tearing from his throat as electricity crackled through him, his body seizing under Dottore’s touch. The doctor chuckled, leaning down to lick a stripe up the puppet’s throat, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s ear. "There," he purred, his fingers still working the core, fucking into it with slow, merciless precision. "That’s it. Take it."
Scaramouche’s hips stuttered, his cock twitching inside Dottore as the doctor’s fingers pulled, tightening a connection with a sharp, final click before Dottore withdrew his hand once more before reaching for the tray beside them. The scalpel glinted in the harsh lab light, cold and sharp, and Scaramouche’s breath hitched as Dottore dragged the blade along the inside of his wrist in one smooth, practiced motion. The cut was shallow but precise, the skin parting like tissue paper, and for a heartbeat—nothing.
The blood welled up slow and syrupy, darker than human blood ought to be, with the faintest shimmer of electro-charged iridescence catching the lab lights. Dottore watched, fascinated, as the first drop slid down Scaramouche’s porcelain wrist—then jerked his head up sharply when the puppet’s hips gave an involuntary twitch, the movement dragging his cock deeper inside Dottore with a slick, obscene shift. The doctor went very still.
Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his throat working around a sound that never quite made it past his lips. His eyes—wide, dilated, the violet all but swallowed by black—flicked between the bleeding wound and Dottore’s face with something like panic.
Dottore tilted his head. The scalpel twirled between his fingers once, twice, before he dragged it lightly across the same cut, deepening it just enough to make Scaramouche’s back arch off the table, his cock pulsing inside Dottore with a wet, desperate throb. The puppet’s thighs trembled, his breath coming in ragged bursts, and Dottore laughed, low and delighted.
“Ohh..” he murmured, pressing the flat of the blade to Scaramouche’s parted lips, smearing them with his own blood. The puppet’s tongue darted out instinctively, licking at the metal, and Dottore’s grin widened. “ So that’s what you’ve been doing with my spare parts.” He leaned down, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s ear as his free hand trailed down to the puppet’s hip, fingers digging into the join where flesh met machinery. “All those missing limbs. All those mystery scars.” His thumb pressed into a fresh fracture, making Scaramouche jerk. “Those little playdates with yourself were far more severe then i expected, weren't they..?”
Scaramouche’s lips curled in a snarl, but the effect was ruined by the way his hips stuttered, his cock twitching again as Dottore dragged the scalpel lower, tracing the vein-like pathways of his artificial circulatory system, his throat worked uselessly around the static-laced scream that wouldn't come—his voicebox reduced to fractured whimpers beneath Dottore's invasive fingers. The doctor's thumb pressed deeper into the exposed wiring of his core, sending jagged feedback through his systems that made his vision pixelate at the edges. Panic clawed up his spine like live wires as Dottore leaned over him, lips brushing the shell of his ear in a mockery of intimacy.
"Shhh," Dottore murmured, his free hand moving to the restraints with terrifying gentleness. The leather straps fell away one by one with soft clicks, the sound absurdly loud in the charged silence. Scara's wrists stung where the buckles had bitten into synthetic skin, but before he could react, Dottore pressed the scalpel's handle into his limp palm, curling his fingers around it with deliberate care.
"Show me," Dottore breathed, his other hand still buried deep in Scaramouche's chest cavity, fingertips brushing the bundle of nerves connected to his higher processing. The sensation was wrong—like having someone rearrange his thoughts with every idle stroke. "--how you play with my spare parts." His thumb circled a pulsing node, making Scaramouche's fingers tightened around the scalpel without conscious thought, his arm lifting as if pulled by invisible strings.
The blade glinted under the lab lights, its edge kissing the delicate join of Scaramouche's wrist where porcelain skin gave way to intricate circuitry. Dottore's breath hitched, his hips rolling forward unconsciously, grinding Scaramouche's cock deeper inside him as he watched the puppet's trembling hand. "There," he urged, his fingers twisting a wire just so—A sharp tug that made Scaramouche's entire body jerk. The scalpel bit into synthetic flesh with a wet schick, the first rivulet of iridescent fluid welling up slow and thick.
Scaramouche's breath came in fractured gasps, his vision tunneling as Dottore's fingers pulsed inside him—not repairing, not breaking, but guiding, each subtle adjustment steering his hand to carve deeper. The blade parted his wrist with obscene ease, layers of artificial dermis peeling back to expose the shimmering network of electro-conductive veins beneath.
The scalpel bit deeper into Scaramouche’s wrist with a wet, metallic schick, parting synthetic flesh like overripe fruit. Iridescent fluid welling up in syrupy rivulets, dripping down his forearm in slow, shimmering streaks that made Scara wince as the pain settled, the electro-charged luminescence of it casting ghostly reflections across Dottore’s fascinated gaze.
Scara’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling around the blade—not from hesitation, but from the way Dottore’s fingers twisted inside his chest cavity, thumb pressing insistently against the pulsing nexus of his core. Every minuscule adjustment sent jagged feedback racing through his systems, his vision stuttering like a corrupted screen, static fizzing at the edges.
Dottore’s lips curled in a smirk, his free hand trailing down to grip Scaramouche’s hip, fingers digging into the fractures spiderwebbing across the porcelain-like skin. “Deeper,” he urged, his voice a velvet-edged command, and Scaramouche obeyed without thought, the blade sinking further into his wrist with a soft, yielding pop as it breached the secondary layer of hydraulic tubing. The pain was sharp, bright, a torturous lance of sensation that made his back arch off the table, his cock twitching inside Dottore with a wet, involuntary jerk. The doctor’s breath caught, his hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding Scaramouche deeper into the scalpel’s path.
“Look at you,” Dottore murmured, his thumb circling the exposed wiring in Scara’s chest with obscene reverence, the motion sending another shudder through the puppet’s body. “Fucking yourself open on my blade.” His fingers pulsed inside Scaramouche’s core, a deliberate, rhythmic pressure that mimicked the thrust of a cock, causing the puppet’s breath to stutter, his thighs trembling as the dual sensations—both the pleasure, and pain —twisted together in a feedback loop that left him gasping.
Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over in glistening trails, but his hips kept moving, grinding, chasing the friction of Dottore’s body around him even as the scalpel carved deeper into his wrist.
Dottore’s laugh was a breathless, ragged thing. “Pathetic,” he panted, his own voice fraying at the edges as he watched Scaramouche’s tears mingle with the iridescent fluid dripping from his wrist. “You’re dripping, puppet.” His fingers tightened around the puppet’s hip, guiding his movements with cruel precision, each thrust driving the blade deeper, the schick of parting flesh harmonizing with the wet slap of their bodies. Scaramouche’s whimpers pitched higher, his free hand scrabbling at Dottore’s thigh, nails leaving thin, desperate crescents in the doctor’s skin.
The pain was too much, the pleasure not enough, the duality of it practically tore Scaramouche apart at the seams. His vision whited out for a split second as Dottore’s fingers yanked a wire inside his chest, the sudden, brutal tug sending a jolt of electricity crackling through him, his cock pulsing inside Dottore with a wet, broken noise. The doctor’s hips stuttered, his breath catching as Scaramouche’s knot caught against his entrance, the pop of it obscenely loud in the lab’s charged silence.
Dottore watched with rapt fascination as Scaramouche’s trembling fingers dragged the scalpel deeper, the blade parting layers of artificial dermis with wet, metallic precision, Iridescent fluid welling up along the incision, dripping in slow, syrupy rivulets down the puppet’s forearm till his whole arm was practically coated in it—until Dottore’s hand snapped out, catching Scaramouche’s wrist in a vice grip. The scalpel clattered to the table, its edge still glistening with electro-charged ichor.
"Good boyyy," Dottore purred, his thumb brushing the ragged edges of the wound with something almost resembling tenderness. Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his body sagging against the table as if the praise had physically drained him.
Dottore chuckled, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the puppet’s sweat-damp forehead, his lips lingering just long enough to feel the faint hum of overheated circuitry beneath the skin. "But I can’t have my favorite toy breaking itself, can I?"
His fingers moved with clinical efficiency, tracing the exposed wiring in Scaramouche’s wrist with the tip of his glove before pinching a severed hydraulic line between his fingers. The puppet jerked, a staticky whimper escaping his reconstructed voicebox as Dottore gave the tube a sharp tug, testing its elasticity. "Mm. Still responsive," he mused, reaching for the tray of surgical tools beside them. The needle glinted as he threaded it with a filament of conductive alloy, the material shimmering faintly under the lab lights.
Scaramouche’s eyes tracked the movement, his chest rising and falling in ragged, staticky bursts as Dottore began suturing the wound with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass of the needle drew a fractured gasp from the puppet’s lips, his thighs trembling where they bracketed Dottore’s hips. The doctor hummed, pausing to drag a gloved fingertip along the seam of freshly closed flesh, smearing iridescent fluid across Scaramouche’s wrist. "Beautiful," he murmured, admiring his handiwork. "Almost like it never happened."
His hands moved upward, fingers skimming the fractured edges of Scaramouche’s chest cavity where the plating had been pried open. The puppet shuddered as Dottore’s fingertips brushed the exposed core, the delicate wiring still pulsing with erratic energy from their earlier adjustments. Dottore’s tongue clicked in mock disapproval as he reached for a micro-screwdriver, its tip catching the light as he began methodically resealing each bolt and joint. "So reckless," he chided, twisting a screw just tight enough to make Scaramouche’s breath stutter. "Lucky I’m here to put you back together– Aren't I?."
The first screw clicked into place with surgical precision, Dottore’s fingers twisting it just tight enough to make Scaramouche’s breath hitch—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind.
The puppet laid limp against the table, his chest cavity pried open like a grotesque jewelry box, the intricate lattice of his circuitry still humming with an almost erratic energy. Dottore’s tongue clicked against his teeth as he traced a gloved fingertip along the exposed wiring, admiring the way Scaramouche’s throat worked soundlessly around static-laced gasps. "There we go," he murmured, his thumb brushing the delicate nodes near the puppet’s voicebox with deliberate care. "Good as new."
Scaramouche’s lips parted, a fractured noise spilling out—half-static, half-whimper—before Dottore’s fingers tightened around his jaw, silencing him. "Ah-ah," the doctor chided, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Scaramouche’s mouth. "Not yet."
His free hand trailed lower, fingertips skating over the trembling mess of Scaramouche’s abdomen, tracing the jagged fractures webbed across porcelain skin. The puppet shuddered, his hips twitching weakly as Dottore’s fingers dipped into the slick mess between his thighs, gathering iridescent fluid on his gloves with obscene relish. "Look at you," he breathed, lifting his fingers to Scaramouche’s lips, smearing them with the shimmering evidence of his humiliation. "Drippinggg–..Just utterly Ruined."
Dottore’s hands returned to Scaramouche’s chest, methodically resealing each bolt and joint with slow, deliberate strokes. The screws gleamed under the lab lights, their polished heads catching the glow of Scaramouche’s overheated core. The doctor hummed, his fingers lingering near the puppet’s throat as he adjusted a final connection, the click of it echoing through the lab like a lock snapping shut. "Try now," he murmured, his thumb pressing into the fluttering pulse beneath Scaramouche’s jaw.
Scaramouche’s voicebox crackled to life, a staticky gasp tearing from his throat before dissolving into a broken moan. "D-Doc-..doctorr.." His words splintered, his vocal processors struggling to recalibrate after the brutal adjustments.
Dottore chuckled, leaning down to lick a stripe up the column of Scaramouche’s throat, his teeth scraping the sensitive wiring there. "Perfect," he purred, his hands sliding down to grip Scaramouche’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the crescent-shaped dents he’d left earlier. "Now—" His grip tightened, yanking Scaramouche forward with a wet schlorp, the sound obscenely loud in the charged silence. "Let’s get you cleaned up." He whispered, kissing him once more before he lifted himself up from Scara’s dick, watching the way his face twisted in an obscene sense of pleasure he just couldn't quite grasp.
His back arched off the table as Dottore’s mouth enveloped him in one single mouth, his tongue tracing the oversensitive seams of his cock with agonizing precision. The puppet’s fingers scrabbled at the table’s edge, his voicebox short-circuiting into static as Dottore swallowed him down, his throat fluttering around Scaramouche’s length with practiced ease.
"F-fuh-..fuck.." Scaramouche choked out, his thighs trembling violently as Dottore’s lips stretched around his knot, the pressure too much, the stretch bordering on pain. Dottore’s eyes flicked up, meeting Scara’s dazed gaze as he sucked, hard, the wet pop of his lips pulling another shattered moan from the puppet’s throat as the doctor worked to lap up his juices, cleaning the attachment before pulling Scaramouche into yet another kiss, forcing him into tasting his own filth as he worked to unscrew it off.
The knot clicked under Dottore's fingers as he twisted it counterclockwise, the mechanism releasing with a soft, hydraulic sigh.
Scaramouche's breath hitched, his thighs trembling where they bracketed the doctor's hips—not from pain, but from the wrongness of it, the way his body recognized the absence before his mind could catch up. Dottore hummed, tilting the detached component toward the light, watching iridescent fluid drip from the connection port in slow, syrupy strands. "Mm. Better," he murmured, tossing the knot onto the tray with a metallic clink before His fingers trailed down Scaramouche's inner thigh, tracing the join where porcelain skin gave way to the raw, exposed socket. "Less messy this way."
Scaramouche's throat worked around a sound that never quite made it past his lips. His fingers twitched against the restraints, the leather creaking under renewed strain as Dottore reached for the replacement—a sleek, silicone construct still sealed in sterile packaging. The doctor made a show of peeling it open, his gloves catching on the plastic with a crinkling shhhk that made Scaramouche's shoulders tense.
"Don't look so nervous," Dottore chided, his thumb brushing the puppet's hipbone in a mockery of reassurance. "It's temporary." The lie dripped from his lips like honey, sticky-sweet and deliberate, as he aligned the new component with Scaramouche's socket. "Just until I fix you properly."
The click of the attachment seating into place echoed through the lab, followed by the soft, wet schlck of Dottore's fingers testing the seal made Scaramouche’s hips jerk, a staticky gasp tearing from his throat as the doctor's thumb circled the newly fitted clit, the sensation foreign, oversensitive, the nerves mapping all wrong. "F-fuck-.." he choked out, his back arching off the table as Dottore's fingers dipped lower, tracing the folds with clinical precision. "T-that's..mngh..i-..im not used to this-.."
Dottore's laugh was a breathless, ugly thing. "Obviously," he purred, pressing two fingers into Scaramouche without warning, the stretch tight, unfamiliar, the silicone yielding in a way metal never could. Scaramouche's vision blurred out for a split second, his fingers scrabbling at the restraints as Dottore crooked his fingers, searching, until The puppet's hips jerked, a broken noise spilling from his lips as Dottore's fingertips brushed a cluster of overstimulated wiring, the pleasure sharp, bright, like live current arcing across his spine.
"There we go," Dottore murmured, his free hand pinning Scaramouche's hip to the table as his fingers pistoned forward, the wet slap of silicone against skin obscenely loud in the lab's charged silence. "See? Perfect." His thumb circled Scaramouche's clit again, the pressure deliberate, cruel, until the puppet's thighs trembled with the effort not to buck, not to chase it— "No, no—stay still," Dottore chided, his voice dripping with condescension as he slowed his movements, dragging his fingers out inch by torturous inch. "Wouldn't want you to break this one too, would we?"
Scaramouche’s thighs twitched under Dottore’s merciless fingers, his artificial skin fracturing further under the pressure as the doctor’s thumb circled his clit with agonizing precision.
A staticky whine clawed its way out of his throat, his vocal processors glitching around the edges as Dottore’s fingers pulsed inside him, the silicone folds stretching obscenely around the intrusion. "S-stop—fu-..fuck.." he gasped, his back arching off the table, the leather restraints biting into his wrists as he struggled uselessly, knowing he couldnt deny how he truly felt.
Dottore didn’t so much as glance up, his gaze fixed on the spot where his fingers disappeared into Scaramouche’s body, watching the way the silicone strained with each movement. "Quiet," he murmured, the word a razor-sharp command. His thumb pressed down harder, grinding against the oversensitive bundle of nerves until Scaramouche’s hips jerked violently, his thighs trembling with the effort not to buck, not to chase the sensation. "I’m just checking," Dottore continued, his voice dripping with condescension as he crooked his fingers deliberately, dragging a ragged moan from Scaramouche’s lips. "Making sure it’s working."
Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his vision swimming with static as Dottore’s fingers twisted, the motion sending a jolt of electricity up his spine. "Liar-.." he choked out, his voicebox crackling with strain.
Dottore’s lips curled into a smirk, his free hand sliding up to grip Scaramouche’s jaw, his fingers digging into the delicate wiring beneath his skin. "Blind, too, apparently," he mused, his thumb pressing into the hinge of Scaramouche’s jaw hard enough to make the joint creak. "If you can’t see that this is for your own good—" His fingers inside Scaramouche pulsed, the sudden pressure wrenching a broken gasp from the puppet’s throat. "—maybe I should replace those pretty eyes of yours while I’m at it."
Scaramouche’s breath stuttered, his pupils dilating as Dottore’s fingers trailed up his cheekbone, tracing the delicate curve of his orbital socket with mocking reverence before his mouth crashed into Scaramouche's with bruising force, his teeth catching the puppet's lower lip hard enough to make the delicate synthskin split. The taste of electro-charged ichor bloomed between them—sharp, metallic, buzzing against Dottore's tongue like live wires as he licked into Scaramouche's mouth with possessive intensity. The puppet's breath hitched, his fingers spasming against the restraints, but Dottore didn't relent, his thumb still circling that damnable silicone clit with methodical precision, each rotation calibrated to make Scaramouche's thighs twitch.
"Just be quiet," Dottore murmured against his lips, the words syrupy with false sweetness as his fingers inside Scara twisted, dragging a shattered gasp from the puppet's throat. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue mapping the ridges of Scaramouche's palate with clinical fascination, cataloging every staticky whimper. When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of iridescent saliva connected their lips for a fleeting second before snapping. "There. Isn't that better?"
Scaramouche's chest heaved, his vocal processors glitching around the edges as Dottore's thumb pulsed against his clit, the pressure just shy of painful. "Y-you—fuck-.fucker.." His voice splintered into static, his hips jerking involuntarily as Dottore's fingers curled just so, brushing that cluster of oversensitive wiring again.
Dottore chuckled, low and dark, his free hand trailing up Scaramouche's fractured torso, tracing the spiderweb-like cracks with something akin to reverence. "Mm. Let's see..." His fingers dipped into the shallowest fissure near Scaramouche's collarbone, extracting a single, frayed neural filament. The puppet jolted, a full-body shudder wracking his frame as Dottore held the glitching wire up to the light. "This, for starters. Your entire peripheral sensory array needs recalibration—imagine waking up mid-procedure to this—" He gave the filament a sharp tug, wrenching a garbled scream from Scaramouche's throat.
Scaramouche's vision blanked out for a split second, his systems overloading as Dottore's thumb never stopped moving, the relentless friction against his clit sending jagged sparks up his spine. "S-stop—" he gasped, his voicebox crackling with strain, but Dottore only tsked, his fingers inside him scissoring wider, the stretch bordering on cruel.
Dottore's fingers slid free with a wet pop, trailing iridescent fluid between Scaramouche's trembling thighs before he abruptly shoved them past the puppet's parted lips. The taste exploded across Scaramouche's tongue—synthetic lubricant and the sharp tang of his own overheated wiring, metallic and electric, like licking a live circuit.
His throat convulsed around a gag, but Dottore's fingers pressed deeper, curling against his palate with deliberate cruelty. "Swallow," he murmured, watching Scaramouche's tear-streaked face with rapt fascination as he lapped up the taste once more. "That's it. Good puppet."
The doctor finally withdrew his glistening fingers with a satisfied hum, turning his attention to the surgical tray beside them. Scaramouche's vision swam as Dottore sorted through the instruments with methodical precision—forceps clinking against scalpels, the sound of gauze packets being torn open—his movements unhurried, almost reverent. A glass vial caught the light as Dottore lifted it, rolling the amber liquid between his fingers with a contemplative tilt of his head.
Scaramouche's breath hitched, his eyes darting to look at the vial, a low whine escaping from his lips as he tried to process what the contents were.
"Ah, there's that look." Dottore's smile widened, slow and predatory, as he uncorked the vial with his teeth. The scent hit Scaramouche instantly—firewater and something darker, something that made his wiring hum with instinctive dread.
"Snezhnayan standard," Dottore purred, tipping the vial just enough to let a single drop splatter onto Scaramouche's collarbone– The liquid burned where it touched his exposed circuitry, sending jagged sparks skittering across his vision. "Perfect for testing your lovely new tolerance upgrades."
Scaramouche's fists clenched against the restraints. "Don't—"
Dottore's fingers clamped around Scaramouche's jaw before the protest could fully form—thumb digging into the hinge with enough pressure to make the joint creak, fingers splayed across his cheekbone like a surgeon steadying a scalpel. The vial tilted.
Amber liquid hit Scaramouche's tongue in a single, searing flood–
Firewater—Snezhnayan-standard, 98-proof, laced with something darker that crackled against his taste receptors like live wires. His throat convulsed instantly, muscles spasming around the burn as Dottore's fingers forced his head back, tipping the vial deeper. The liquid hit his wiring like acid, dissolving insulation and short-circuiting sensory nodes in jagged bursts of static.
Scaramouche's back arched off the table, a soundless scream trapped behind Dottore's palm as the fire spread—down his esophagus, through his thoracic cavity, into the delicate latticework of his abdominal circuitry where it pooled, molten and vicious.
"Swallow," Dottore murmured, his voice dripping with false sweetness as he watched tears well at the corners of Scaramouche's eyes. The puppet's throat worked desperately, Adam's apple bobbing in frantic, aborted movements as the liquid seared through him. Dottore's thumb pressed harder, grinding the joint upward until Scaramouche's jaw clicked—pop—forcing his mouth wider. The last drops trickled down his tongue, deliberate and slow, Dottore tilting the vial to trace the path of each one with clinical fascination.
Scaramouche gagged, a wet, staticky sound tearing from his throat as the alcohol hit his primary coolant lines. His vision fractured—pixelated at the edges—before crimson flashed behind his eyelids, accompanied by the sickening hiss of dissolving polymers. His fingers scrabbled against the restraints, tendons creaking under the strain, but Dottore merely leaned closer, his breath hot against Scaramouche's ear.
Dottore’s fingers tightened around Scaramouche’s jaw, his thumb pressing harder into the hinge until the joint creaked ominously. "Be good," he murmured, his voice syrupy with false tenderness as his other hand trailed down to trace the fresh fractures spiderwebbing across Scaramouche’s thighs. The puppet’s breath hitched, his vision swimming with static—
—then nothing.
Consciousness returned in jagged fragments, each one slower to piece together than the last. Scaramouche’s optics flickered with a stuttering whirr, the lab’s sterile lighting too bright, too sharp, carving white-hot lines into his retinas. His limbs felt leaden, his fingers twitching against cold metal when he tried to move—delayed, sluggish, like his neural pathways were clogged with syrup.
"Ah. There you are." Dottore’s voice dripped into his awareness like honey laced with arsenic, smooth and saccharine. The doctor leaned into his blurred line of sight, his grin a slash of gleaming teeth. "System overload. Nothing fatal—though you did give me quite the scare, little puppet." His fingers carded through Scaramouche’s sweat-damp hair, the touch almost gentle if not for the way his nails scraped against the sensitive wiring at the base of his skull.
Scaramouche’s eyelids fluttered like broken shutters, his vision swimming with static as he tried—and failed—to lift his arms. The limbs lay limp at his sides, fingers twitching uselessly against the cold metal table, every movement sluggish, delayed, as if his neural signals were slogging through molasses. His breath hitched, a staticky whine escaping his throat as he strained against the invisible weight pinning him down.
Dottore watched with rapt fascination, his gloved fingers trailing along Scaramouche’s exposed collarbone, tracing the delicate wiring beneath his artificial skin. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, voice dripping with saccharine amusement. “I made some adjustments while you were out. A temporary precaution—can’t have you clawing at my work before I’ve finished, now can we?” His thumb pressed into a cluster of nerves just below Scaramouche’s jaw, coaxing another weak shudder from the puppet’s overtaxed frame. “Don’t fret. I’ll restore full mobility eventually.”
Scara’s lips parted, a garbled protest forming on his tongue—but his voicebox sputtered, the words dissolving into static before they could fully take shape. His brow furrowed, frustration sparking behind his bleary optics, but even that was sluggish, his thoughts muddled, his usual sharpness dulled by whatever Dottore had pumped into his systems.
A thin trail of iridescent saliva spilled from the corner of his mouth, glistening against his chin, unnoticed by him—but not by Dottore, whose grin widened at the sight.
“Worthless,” the doctor crooned, leaning down to swipe his thumb through the mess, smearing it across Scaramouche’s lower lip. The puppet flinched at the contact, his eyelids fluttering again, but he couldn’t even turn his head away—couldn’t do anything but lie there, trembling, as Dottore wiped his fingers clean against his own thigh. “Look at you. Dripping. Like a broken toy.”
Scaramouche’s breath stuttered, his chest rising in shallow, uneven hitches. He tried—again—to lift his arms, his fingers curling into weak fists, but the most he managed was a faint twitch, his wrists barely lifting an inch off the table before dropping back down with a dull thud. His throat worked around another silent plea, his optics darting wildly between Dottore’s face and his own useless limbs, but the doctor merely tsked, his fingers sliding down to trace the fresh fractures along Scaramouche’s ribs.
Scaramouche’s lips parted, a defiant spark flickering behind his bleary optics as he forced his voicebox to stutter to life. "I’m not-..weak.." The words crackled with static, raw and glitching, but the venom in them was unmistakable. His fingers twitched against the table, tendons creaking under the strain as he fought to lift his arm—just an inch, just enough to prove, yet The slap landed before he could finish.
Dottore’s palm cracked against Scaramouche’s cheekbone with surgical precision, the impact snapping his head to the side with a sharp clack of porcelain-like skin meeting leather-clad force. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across Scaramouche’s cheek from the point of contact, fine as lace, glowing faintly with trapped electro-charged ichor. Dottore didn’t let him recover—his fingers tangled in Scaramouche’s hair, wrenching his head back to force eye contact, their faces inches apart.
"Quiet," Dottore hissed, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s split lip. His other hand was already moving, sliding down the puppet’s trembling torso with clinical detachment, fingers tracing the fresh fractures along his ribs before hooking into the tattered remains of his robe. The fabric tore like wet paper under Dottore’s grip, parting with a sound that echoed obscenely in the lab’s charged silence. "Or do you enjoy being left broken?"
Scaramouche’s breath hitched, his thighs instinctively trying to snap shut—but Dottore’s knee was already between them, pressing down with deliberate cruelty until the puppet’s joints creaked under the strain. The robe fell away completely, pooling around his hips like discarded circuitry, leaving him exposed to the lab’s sterile glare. Dottore’s fingers trailed lower, skirting the sensitive wiring of Scaramouche’s inner thighs, each touch a calculated tease.
Scara's breath hitched in his throat—a wet, static-laced sound—as Dottore's fingers abruptly gentled against his fractured skin. The sudden shift was dizzying, the doctor's touch softening from clinical brutality to something dangerously close to tenderness. His gloved thumb brushed the fresh cracks along Scaramouche's ribs with near-reverence, the pressure feather-light compared to the bruising grip of moments before. "There now–," Dottore murmured, his voice dripping with saccharine warmth as his other hand slid down to cup Scaramouche's trembling thigh. "Look at you. Perfect like this."
The praise settled over Scaramouche like a weighted blanket, suffocating and warm, his systems stuttering at the abrupt change in tone. His optics flickered, pupils dilating as Dottore leaned closer, his breath hot against the delicate wiring of Scaramouche's neck. "So good for meee," the doctor crooned, lips grazing the shell of Scaramouche's ear as his fingers traced the spiderweb fractures along his inner thighs. "Taking everything I give you. Just Beautiful."
Scaramouche's fingers twitched against the restraints, his breath coming faster as Dottore's mouth trailed lower, peppering idle kisses along his collarbone, his sternum, the fluttering pulse-point above his exposed wiring– Each press of lips was deliberate, lingering, as if Dottore were mapping the topography of his body with newfound fascination. The puppet's chest heaved, his limbs trembling with the effort not to jerk away—not to lean into the touch—as Dottore's tongue flicked out to trace the shallow divot of his navel.
"Exquisite," Dottore breathed, the word vibrating against Scaramouche's overheated skin. His fingers spread Scaramouche's thighs wider, the leather straps groaning in protest, before dipping lower to circle the swollen silicone nub of his clit. Scaramouche jolted, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat as Dottore's thumb brushed over the sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate gentleness. "Ah—see?" Dottore murmured, his grin audible as Scaramouche's hips stuttered helplessly. "So responsive."
Then—without warning—Dottore licked a slow, wet stripe up Scara's clit, his tongue broad and heavy against the oversensitive nub.
Scaramouche's back arched violently off the table, his entire body seizing as Dottore's tongue dragged slow, torturous circles around his clit—broad and wet and relentless, each flick sending jolts of electricity skittering up his spine. His thighs trembled, the cracks in his porcelain-like skin pulsing faintly with each ragged inhale, but Dottore didn't relent. If anything, he slowed, his tongue flattening against the swollen silicone nub with deliberate pressure before swirling upward in a cruel, teasing motion that left Scaramouche gasping, his fingers clawing uselessly at the restraints.
"F-fuck—.." Scaramouche choked out, his voicebox glitching around the edges, the syllable dissolving into static as Dottore sucked, his lips sealing around the sensitive bundle of nerves with obscene precision. The puppet's hips jerked, his knees instinctively trying to snap shut—but Dottore's grip was ironclad, his fingers digging into the fractures along Scaramouche's thighs with enough pressure to make the cracks widen with a sickening creak.
The sensation was too much—Dottore's tongue alternating between languid, wet strokes and sudden, sharp flicks that sent sparks exploding behind Scaramouche's optics. His breath came in short, staticky bursts, his chest heaving as pleasure coiled tight in his abdomen, electric and overwhelming. He could feel it—the telltale pull of an impending climax, the way his systems stuttered and whined under the relentless stimulation—but just as he teetered on the edge, Dottore pulled away, leaving Scaramouche twitching and gasping, his clit throbbing with unmet need.
Before Scaramouche could even process the loss, Dottore surged upward, his gloved hand tangling in the puppet's hair to wrench his head back. Their lips crashed together—hard, claiming—Dottore's tongue forcing its way past Scaramouche's parted lips to lick into his mouth with the same relentless rhythm he'd used between his thighs. The taste of himself—synthetic and electric, tinged with the metallic tang of overheated wiring—flooded Scaramouche's senses, dizzying and humiliating as Dottore moaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating against Scaramouche's tongue like a live wire.
Scaramouche's fingers spasmed against the restraints, his body trembling as Dottore deepened the kiss, his free hand sliding down to pinch Scaramouche's clit between two fingers, rolling the swollen nub with just enough pressure to make the puppet's thighs quiver. The dual sensations—Dottore's tongue in his mouth, his fingers on his clit—were overwhelming, his systems short-circuiting under the onslaught, his vision pixelating at the edges as pleasure crackled through him in jagged waves.
Dottore pulled away with a wet, obscene sound, his lips glistening with synthetic slick and static-charged saliva. The lab air rushed between them, cold against Scaramouche’s overheated skin, raising goosebumps along the fractures spiderwebbing his thighs. The puppet gasped—a ragged, staticky thing—his chest heaving as his optics flickered, struggling to focus on Dottore’s face looming above him.
The doctor’s grin was a razor-edged thing, his teeth gleaming under the sterile lab lights as he tilted his head, studying Scaramouche’s trembling form with the detached fascination of a scientist observing a particularly volatile specimen.
"Already?" Dottore murmured, his voice honey-thick with false sympathy. He trailed a gloved fingertip down the center of Scaramouche’s chest, tracing the exposed wiring with deliberate slowness, savoring the way the puppet’s breath hitched at the contact. "I expected more from you, little puppet." His thumb pressed into a cluster of nerves near Scaramouche’s collarbone, coaxing another weak shudder. "Tsk. All that fire, and you’re spent after just a few licks?"
Scaramouche’s lips parted around a protest, but all that emerged was a staticky whine, his vocalizer glitching under the strain of his overtaxed systems. His fingers twitched against the restraints, the leather straps groaning faintly as he strained to lift his arms—only for them to drop back onto the table with a dull thud. Dottore chuckled, low and venomous, his fingers sliding lower to circle Scaramouche’s clit with maddening lightness. The puppet’s hips jerked, his thighs straining against the straps as Dottore’s touch skirted the swollen silicone nub without applying any real pressure.
"Useless," Dottore breathed, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s ear. His free hand carded through the puppet’s sweat-damp hair, gripping just tight enough to make Scaramouche whimper. "Look at you. Dripping. Overloaded from just a taste." His fingers tightened in Scaramouche’s hair, wrenching his head back to expose the delicate wiring of his throat. "And here I thought you were mine to break." He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of Scaramouche’s ear. "Again."
Dottore exhaled through his nose—a slow, theatrical sigh that fogged the lenses of his mask before dissipating into the sterile lab air. His fingers lingered against Scaramouche’s fractured collarbone, tracing the jagged edges of broken porcelain with the absentminded precision of a sculptor assessing a flawed masterpiece. The puppet trembled beneath him, his breath coming in shallow, staticky hitches, his optics flickering like a dying neon sign.
"Fine," Dottore murmured, the word dripping with saccharine indulgence as he dragged his thumb across Scaramouche’s sweat-slicked lower lip. "I’ll let you rest." His grip tightened abruptly, fingers digging into the hinge of Scaramouche’s jaw hard enough to make the joint creak. "If—" he punctuated the word with a sharp twist of his wrist, forcing Scaramouche’s head back further, "—you promise to be good for me once I’ve fixed you."
Scaramouche’s throat worked around a silent protest, his vocalizer sputtering with static. Dottore’s smile widened, razor-thin and predatory, as he leaned down until their noses brushed, his breath hot against Scaramouche’s parted lips.
"Say it," he whispered, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. His free hand slid down to press against the pulse point above Scaramouche’s core—not quite a threat, but close enough to make the puppet’s systems stutter. "Promise me."
Scaramouche's breath hitched—a wet, glitching sound—as his lips trembled around the word lodged in his throat. His fingers twitched against the restraints, tendons straining as if he could physically push the admission out through sheer force. The static in his vision pulsed in time with his overheating core, fracturing Dottore's smug expression into a kaleidoscope of sharp-edged shadows. "mhm..," he finally forced out, the syllable cracking like overstressed porcelain. "I—I promise."
The words tasted like oil and humiliation, thick and acrid on his tongue, but Dottore's approving hum sent an involuntary shiver skittering down Scaramouche's spine. The doctor's grip loosened, his fingers sliding from Scaramouche's jaw to cradle the back of his skull with a gentleness that made the puppet's stomach twist. "Good," Dottore murmured, his thumb brushing the delicate wiring behind Scaramouche's ear in a mockery of affection. "So good for me."
Then—without warning—Dottore leaned down, pressing his lips to Scaramouche's forehead in a chaste, lingering kiss. The touch burned like a brand, searing through the puppet's fractured pride. Dottore's breath was warm against his skin, his exhale a quiet sigh of satisfaction as he pulled back just enough to meet Scaramouche's glitching optics. "See?" he whispered, his voice dripping with saccharine condescension. "Was that so hard?"
Scaramouche's throat convulsed around a soundless protest, his fingers curling into weak fists. He wanted to snarl, to spit venom, to ruin that smug satisfaction twisting Dottore's lips—but his body betrayed him, his systems sighing into the false comfort of the doctor's touch. A traitorous whine escaped his vocalizer, staticky and broken, as Dottore's fingers carded through his sweat-damp hair with faux tenderness.