Work Text:
Dottore wasn’t a sadist, exactly. He didn’t delight in other people's pain. It was just a necessary component of many of his experiments, and he was impervious to the pleas and cries of his specimens in a way that could be mistaken for sadism rather than a complete dismissal of the feelings of others. Still, it was a more believable label than 'masochist', so Scaramouche was stunned to discover that was the category Dottore fell into.
It hadn't been deliberate. The connectors installed into his back were like exposed nerves, and Dottore had been too in his own head to adjust them with his customary care. It’d been agony (frankly, most of his interactions with Dottore were agony these days regardless of the presence or lack thereof of physical pain), and there was only so much even he could take, so he’d struck out. Blindly, furiously. He was barely cognizant of what he was doing until he heard a low, wet groan and looked down to find himself straddling Dottore, with one hand around Dottore’s throat and the other curled into a bloody fist.
He hadn’t known Dottore could bleed. The segments compositions were somewhere between human and machine and he’d never gotten close enough to gauge where Omega fell on that scale. Right now, he was looking exceptionally human as he worked his jaw and tongued his split lip. For someone who had subjected people to unimaginable pain, Dottore didn’t seem to tolerate it well, and the fact he was taking such a meagre beating so poorly would have been funny enough on its own, but then Scaramouche had moved to rise off Dottore so he could berate the man for his carelessness and felt a hardness brush against the cleft of his ass and, oh, wasn't that interesting.
The moment they both became aware of how Scaramouche’s outburst had affected Dottore, Dottore attempted to shake Scaramouche off and get to his feet. Scaramouche simply caught him by the shoulders and slammed him back down.
"What do you think you're doing?" asked Dottore in a hiss.
"Indulging you," said Scaramouche sardonically. He ground his ass down against Dottore's cock and Dottore's entire body jerked and quivered. "Look at how hard you are, and all I did was hit you."
“Scaramouche,” said Dottore, his voice low and angry, a warning: ‘I won't let you do this’. But if he’d really wanted to extract himself from Scaramouche, he could have. He could have bucked until Scaramouche fell off. He could have thrown Scaramouche. But he didn’t, and that made Scaramouche's mouth stretch in a vicious, victorious grin.
Dottore wanted this. The proud, arrogant, untouchable doctor wanted this.
“Filthy pervert,” he said, squeezing his fingers around Dottore’s throat. The vulnerable cartilage under his fingers bent and he felt Dottore’s cock swell against his rear.
“And what does that make you for indulging me?” asked Dottore, his voice strained.
“A generous god,” said Scaramouche with a sneer. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above Dottore’s. “You’re only a man, Dottore; I'm not surprised you’re beholden to such filth. I’ll help you since you’ve helped me ascend to divinity.”
“Oh?” The corners of Dottore’s mouth twitched. “Is that all? It’s not because you aren’t also beholden to such things?”
Scaramouche snorted. “You should know better by now.” Still, there was a great deal to appreciate in Dottore like this, at this proximity. The narrow curve of his jaw, his soft lips, the long drape of his hair. A rather pretty man when brought low. Prior to this, he wouldn’t have thought Dottore had enough humanity left in him to have a weakness like this. He was, of course, going to exploit it mercilessly.
Dottore’s hot breath rolled over Scaramouche’s face. “Let's check, shall we?” he said as he slithered an arm between their bodies and palmed Scaramouche’s half-hard crotch.
Scaramouche bit down on a gasp, which made Dottore smile in such an obnoxious way that Scaramouche wanted to slap him. So he did. Dottore’s head snapped to the side and his mask fell askew, and a strange black panel with a star-shaped something in the middle glimmered as Dottore turned his gaze back up to Scaramouche. A curious sight. In all the years he'd known Omega he'd never seen behind his mask before, and now that he had, he was captivated. He was peeling away all those layers Dottore held so close, and Dottore was letting him.
He nudged the mask the rest of the way off and pressed down on Dottore's throat, grinding the metal ring there hard into his windpipe. “I didn’t say you could touch me."
All Dottore managed in response was a choked little laugh.
“Keep your hands by your sides,” he added, and Dottore grunted and did what he was told, letting his hands fall away from Scaramouche. He eased the pressure on Dottore’s windpipe, allowing him to suck in a needy breath. Did he even need to breathe, or was this simply a reflex? A show? Either way, Scaramouche enjoyed it. “Obedient,” he murmured. “I didn’t think you had it in you to do what someone else says.”
“I wouldn’t get accustomed to it, Scaramouche,” said Dottore. “I remain your superior and expect to be treated as such.”
“And will you remain my superior when I take over as your homeland’s god?” Scaramouche tilted his head. “What if obedience is what I wish from my subject?”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” said Dottore, displaying his serrated teeth in a smile. “You’re not quite there yet, little puppet.”
“But I will be, segment.” He leaned close again. “And I think I’ll have... many a request to make of you, now that I know you have the capacity for obedience.” Dottore shuddered in response to this, and Scaramouche delighted in it.
He closed the little distance between them to slide his tongue along Dottore’s mouth, over the wound he’d made when he’d punched Dottore. He tasted like salt and copper and the vague sweetness of the juices and teas he favoured, which were the only things anyone ever saw him consume. When he pressed his tongue forward, driving it against Dottore’s sharp incisors, the man obediently opened his mouth to let him inside. He tasted his hard palate, his molars, the softness of his tongue. He reached as far back as he could, until Dottore choked and spasmed, then retreated to bite down on Dottore’s tongue hard enough to make it bleed.
Dottore was so hard now Scaramouche could feel his cock pulsing against his ass. He adjusted his position so he had one thigh between Dottore’s legs and pressed down, and Dottore arched in pursuit of more friction, grinding his hard cock against Scaramouche’s thigh, as needy as a dog. The sounds he was making would have made even Pierro blush—ragged, breathy moans; aborted cries, choked-off whimpers. Scaramouche had experienced little in the way of attraction to humans, but he was getting so worked up by the sight and sound and feel of Dottore that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain composure.
“Shameless,” he said, speaking in a growl to hide the tremble in his voice. He leaned back to drink Dottore in, hungry gaze roving over the bruises developing on his cheek and jaw and the swollen pink of his split lip, then down to the red blemishes on his throat, thick under the metal ring fixed just over his adams apple.
Dottore stared at him with that strange, glimmering eye. Even without the red eyes and long, pale lashes Scaramouche had seen on other segments, he was really too pretty for his own good. He rocked his leg against the solid heat of Dottore’s cock and watched the man’s machinery flicker and his head roll back, the red on his cheeks deepening. The sight exacerbated rather than whet his thirst for more.
He tore Dottore’s cravat loose with one hand and pulled open his shirt, his hand shaking hard with each stretch of pale flesh that was unveiled. He was practically salivating as he cast his hungry gaze over Dottore’s pecs, watching his nipples pearl in the chill of the laboratory. He closed his teeth over one of those pert nipples and Dottore moaned like a wounded animal, arching up into his mouth, encouraging more. Scaramouche was happy to oblige. He roved his tongue over the divots left by his teeth and moved on to the next nipple, biting at the nub until it turned red before creating a twin bite mark around the areola.
He dragged his hands down Dottore’s body, digging his nails in and leaving long, painful welts all the way down to the prominent jut of Dottore’s hips. He was warm and soft and Scaramouche sunk into it, eagerly leeching his warmth into his own cold, hollow body. Despite his clear robotic influences, Dottore was human in all the ways that mattered, all the ways that made him weak and pliable. He bit his way down to Dottore's belly button and clawed lingering marks into the supple skin of his waist.
He didn’t slide low enough to mouth at the bulge of Dottore’s cock, though judging by the way Dottore glanced at him, his expression expectant and eager, that was what he’d been hoping for. Scaramouche instead worked his way back up, kissing and licking the marks he’d driven into Dottore’s skin and relishing the taste of copper and salt. Once he’d reached Dottore’s face, he curiously raised a hand to glide a thumb over the metal that was there in lieu of eyes. Dottore sucked in a breath and tilted his head out of the way.
“Sensitive?” said Scaramouche, intrigued. He fisted his hands into Dottore’s hair to prevent him from squirming away and leaned down, pressing his lips to the hard angles of that luminescent core. Dottore shuddered violently and tore his fingers into Scaramouche's arms. Definitely sensitive, then.
“Clearly, so I suggest you-” His voice cut off into a cry as Scaramouche slid his tongue over the glowing star. It was hot, pulsing like a heartbeat. Were he human, it might have seared his tongue, but he was more resilient than that. He worked his tongue into every dip and crevice and tightened his grip on Dottore when the man shuddered and tugged at Scaramouche’s arms in some half-hearted effort to pull him off.
Scaramouche ground his tongue down against the component and slid his fingers into the hollows at either side of Dottore's head, stroking the warm, thrumming wires there. Dottore rapidly became incoherent and his finer motor functions began to fail. He shook under Scaramouche, wonderfully reactive, and his hips jolted up, and up, and up, until suddenly he stiffened from head to toe and let out a cry that leapt off the walls in an echo. A faint wetness developed between their bodies, warm on Scaramouche’s thigh, before Dottore collapsed back to the floor in a shivering heap and let his hands fall away from Scaramouche’s arms.
Dottore’s face was impressively red. Scaramouche ran his fingers along the rise of his cheekbones and marvelled at the warmth of him. Like a furnace. Like the licking, ethereal heat in the heart of Tatarasuna. He laid his slighter body over Dottore’s, between Dottore’s legs, his gaze fixed on Dottore’s face while the man fought to recover his composure.
“How nice of the original to have built you with such a weak point,” he said as he pressed his thumbs to the glowing component again. He laughed when Dottore whined. “No wonder you always wear that mask.”
“The mask has several practical uses,” said Dottore, his voice strained and quiet. “So would yours, if you ever wore it."
“It’s a little late for that sort of advice, don’t you think?” It was only a matter of time before he was fused with the machine, after all. Maybe Dottore would be able to adjust it later and make it smaller, but until then, he wasn’t going to be bothered with a hat, much less the mask he'd attached to it.
Dottore grunted and raised his hands to Scaramouche’s shoulders, attempting to push him off. Scaramouche simply brushed his hands away.
“We’re not done," said Scaramouche. "I haven’t come yet.”
“I don’t particularly care,” said Dottore, but he fell still under Scaramouche anyway.
“Of course you don’t,” said Scaramouche, sneering as he reached down to undo Dottore’s trousers and reach inside for his flaccid cock. He gave it a few rough strokes, watching Dottore’s lips thin and tremble from his rough handling, then gathered up all the come he could with his fingertips and tore Dottore’s trousers down around his thighs with his free hand. Without any sort of preamble, he stuck two fingers into the warmth of Dottore’s hole, right up to the knuckles, and smiled when Dottore let out a shout. “Oh please,” said Scaramouche. “Don’t be pathetic. I let you install ports in me and I didn’t whine nearly this much.”
Dottore scowled. “I gave you ample warning before shoving my fingers anywhere.” Nonetheless, he let his legs fall apart, giving Scaramouch greater room to work with.
“You really are desperate for it,” said Scaramouche, amused. Before Dottore could remark on this, he slid his fingers in deeper, stroking his silky insides and exploring the warmth and wet of him. While this wasn’t the first time he’d had his fingers in someone – sex was a curiosity he’d explored briefly in his younger years, satiating himself on a few underlings before discarding them for more worthwhile pursuits - this was markedly less perfunctory than his past experiences.
It was a few seconds before Dottore recovered his voice. “Must you talk through this?” he asked, his voice breathy and exasperated.
“If you really wanted me to be quiet, you would have thrown me off by now.” Scaramouch added a third finger, squeezing it in between the other two. It was a tight fit. Seemed like Dottore hadn’t done this in a while. “Like I said: desperate.”
“Oh, shut up and get on with it,” said Dottore, baring his teeth. “Have you never fucked a man before, Scaramouche? You should have your cock out by now.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, but he did reach down to peel off his stomach guard and lower his shorts just enough to get out his cock, currently rigid and red-tipped.
“Diminutive,” said Dottore.
Scaramouche scoffed. “It’s not that much smaller than yours. You'll certainly feel it when it’s in you.”
“Would you like me to enlarge it?”
Scaramouche made a face. “You’re such a freak.”
“Mmm, and your fingers are inside me, so clearly that’s no issue,” said Dottore.
Scaramouche scoffed again and gave his fingers a twist, pressing them against the delicate bulb of Dottore’s prostate and rubbing persistently. Dottore let out a guttural groan that surged through Scaramouche like an electric shock. His blood churned, made warm by the proximity to Dottore’s heat.
“Perhaps I could try something with my new mechanical body,” he said as he fingered Dottore open. “I could hold you in one hand and drive you onto my cock. You'd love that, wouldn't you? To be fucked like a toy by your own creation?"
Dottore let out a breathy sigh. “The suit isn't currently equipped for something like that, but I could make arrangements.”
"Really?" Scaramouche laughed. "What a whore you are."
Exhaustion rarely touched this puppet body of his, so he was able to stroke Dottore’s insides with the sort of persistence and precision unattainable by a human. He brought Dottore to the edge over and over, watching him carefully while he panted and shook, his thighs quaking, his insides squeezing around Scaramouche’s fingers, and he honestly could have done this for days without end. But while Dottore’s endurance was exceptional, it was doubtful he could last as long as Scaramouche. He’d managed to harden again though, his cock bobbing in the air, red-tipped and glazed with a smear of pre-come. When Scaramouche gave his cock a flick with his nail, Dottore whimpered- a delicious sound.
“Enough,” Dottore hissed, reaching down between their bodies to haul Scaramouche’s fingers out, his hand clammy and shaking. "You're taking too long."
“Your endurance is lacking, Dottore. What was that- twenty minutes? And you’re already conceding?”
“This isn’t a test of endurance.” He took a deep breath and twisted his damp fingers around Scaramouche’s cock, which prompted Scaramouche to groan. “If you're too incompetent to get it in, I suppose I’ll just have to guide you. As per usual."
“Would you like me to shove my fist up there? Because I'm sorely tempted,” said Scaramouche.
“No, thank you." Dottore lined up the head of Scaramouche’s cock, spreading his legs a little further to give Scaramouche room to thrust. “I don't want this encounter to be more disappointing than it already- ugh!”
He yelped like a stuck pig as Scaramouche abruptly drove into him, burying his engorged cock in to the hilt. He quickly got his hands around Dottore’s bony hips for leverage and rutted into him with short, sharp movements. Despite Dottore’s remarks about his size, Scaramouche’s cock was quite a bit more to take than his fingers, and Dottore was breathing hard and trembling as he struggled to adjust to the intrusion.
“You’re such a rude, inconsiderate man,” he murmured, voice scraping up his throat, and Scaramouche dug his nails into his hips hard enough to bruise and thrust so deep and hard that Dottore whimpered.
“Yeah? And you wanted me to do this. What would the other harbingers think if they saw you like this?” He noticed Dottore’s cock twitch and laughed, leaning over him and scraping his teeth along the sharp line of Dottore’s jaw. “You know, I’m not even interested in sex. I could forgo it for the rest of time. I just think you look good beneath me, squirming on my cock, whimpering and whining like a bitch.” He trailed his lips up to Dottore’s ear, biting down on the lobe and murmuring into the shell. “Humans were made to be ruled, Dottore, and all that circuitry can’t change what you are.”
Dottore didn’t respond, but the way his breath stuttered and the enthusiastic twitching of his cock said enough. How ironic that the blasphemer got off on being dominated by a god. Perhaps it was the contrariness that appealed to him; that did seem like the sort of thing Dottore would be into.
He slid his mouth back down and bit into Dottore’s neck, just above the leather strap encircling it, and held on tight as he rocked into Dottore, letting himself be pulled under by the hot, wet squeeze of Dottore’s body. He didn’t make any particular effort to aim for Dottore’s prostate, but the man cried out a stream of filth regardless and folded his hands over Scaramouche’s back, pulling him into every thrust, drawing Scaramouche in as deep as he could go.
Blood pearled under his teeth, bitter on his tongue. He bit harder, deeper, drawing more and creating a mark Dottore would have to cover with high collars for weeks to come. Dottore whined and curled his fingers into one of the connectors in Scaramouche's back, a spiteful little action that sent pain lashing through his body, but he ignored it and kept on biting and thrusting and barrelling for his peak. He was already so close, his sac drawing up and cock throbbing in time with his circulatory system. It drummed like a heartbeat in his ears.
When he finished, it was with a sound that he’d never heard himself make before. Something loud and brittle, like the cry of an animal. He filled Dottore with sticky strings of come and continued pounding into him with fervour so Dottore would fall over the edge with Scaramouche- and he did, Dottore’s insides clenching around him as the man came apart on his cock, shouting and clawing so hard into Scaramouche’s back that Scaramouche felt the wetness of blood slide down the crevice of his spine.
They collapsed to the floor after, both sore and battered. Dottore more so than himself, which Scaramouche took satisfaction in. He had no breath to catch, so he released Dottore’s neck and laid his chin on Dottore’s sternum, making himself comfortable while Dottore sucked in hungry breaths that rattled his entire body.
“Satisfactory,” said Dottore after a while, which was an assessment that made Scaramouche want to start throttling him again.
“As you requested.”
Scaramouche stared at the mechanical cock with disbelief written in every line of his face. “I’m not wearing that.”
“It was your idea, Scaramouche,” said Dottore as he set the phallus, approximately the size of Dottore’s forearm, on his worktable. “It’s easily attached and removed. I’ve also installed a pump that expels seminal fluid.”
“I wasn't being serious," said Scaramouch. A subtle pink gathered in his cheeks as he stared down at the mechanical cock. “It has actual seminal fluid? That’s disgusting.”
“Don’t be crude-”
“I’m being crude?”
“It’s an approximate composition. I’ve also scented it with Bulle Fruit.”
“You-” Scaramouche scrubbed his hands over his face, which he was sure was as red as his hat, and turned away from the phallus. “Why? Why would you scent it?”
“Am I not allowed to enjoy a pleasant fragrance during sex?” asked Dottore.
Scaramouche wanted to fuck him just for how prissy that remark was. “Fine,” he hissed, making a vague gesture to his body’s new addition. “Get it set up, then, and I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Maybe you’ll be more tolerable that way.”
“Splendid,” said Dottore as he gathered the appendage back into his arms. “I’ll go and make the preparations.”