Arthur Kirkland’s Basement Laboratory

-----As continued from here-----

Francis could do little as he was wheeled down, down, so far down that he feared that they were going deep into the Earth's crust. There was one thing he feared, that he absolutely could not stand; being buried alive. The thought of all that earth, all that dirt between him and the sky, between him and safety and air-

He was starting to hyperventilate, as best his body could, strapped down as it was. His eyes rolled up in fear as his body remained motionless, helpless. Completely open to whatever it was that the doctor was planning, what he was going to do. Whatever that was.

There was nothing down here, was there? Just the basement. Why was the doctor taking him to the basement? And what was that about... special treatment?

He didn't want to know, and he was starting to get the sinking feeling deep in his gut that he would and that he would have no choice in the matter. His body was still limp, after all. He couldn't even raise his head, could barely force his eyes shut to blink. Every breath was a battle, a war to be fought to fill his lungs with air.

But that did not concern him- the lack of oxygen, the exhaustion that was starting to set in- what concerned him was that the doctor, who'd protested that he was sane, was clearly not sane in the least.

His cool, calm mask was a concern. No one would suspect the doctor of mistreating a patient such as himself.

Not.... that he had anything to fear, correct? The doctor wasn't going to do anything.

At least, he'd thought so, until he got a glimpse of the room he'd been wheeled into.

Hell.

He could only choke out a quiet noise, more of a whimper than anything. What was this?

Arthur gazed with pride at his collection, ignoring the struggled breathing and the faint whimper from his poor, sick patient. Oh sure, these were outdated methods, long since replaced by drugs and psychotherapy. But that didn’t mean they were completely without merit. Fear and pain could be very effective tools in and of themselves. Not to mention they were so satisfying, particularly with these troublesome patients.

Oh, where to begin?

The cold water tank, maybe? Shock his system and lower his body temperature. Expose him to the pain of having his whole body submerged in near freezing water until he comes to his senses… Ah, but in his sedated state, it wouldn’t be as effective. Besides, Francis wasn’t afraid of water.

He was afraid of needles. And he fantasized about blood.

He wheeled the man over to one of the restraint chairs, one with the faint brown stains of old blood. Smiling the smile of one who is happy with his work, he loosened the straps on the wheelchair, placing Francis’s arm over his shoulder and lifting him. “Now then, easy does it.” The comforting tone of his voice was almost sincere. His handling of the patient almost gentle. He was a doctor doing what he must for his patient and getting no small amount of pleasure from it.

Arthur settled Francis down in the chair, fixing the new restraints across the chest and legs and wrists and elbows, until his patient was quite secure. Not that he could go much of anywhere anyway just yet. It was quite a strong sedative. He hummed to himself as he worked. Some cheery tune from his childhood, its name long forgotten to him.

He looked up at Francis, catching his eyes and seeing fear in them. It was amazing that he had managed to remain conscious despite the drugs. He would no doubt soon wish he had embraced sleep. And wish even more that he had not acted on his unchecked desires and attacked in the first place.

He held his patient’s gaze, his smile off and a flash of madness in his eyes. “We are going to try something here, Francis. I’ll bring you back to sanity, yet.” Arthur reached out with a hand and caressed the Frenchman’s cheek. He was actually quite beautiful like this. So quiet, so helpless. So terrified…

“Just remember what I do, I do for your own good.”

He turned his back to the patient, opening one of the display cases. From it, he pulled a deep silver-colored bowl, a long, thin, sharp metal instrument not unlike a large needle, and a smaller tool, equipped with a triangular shaped blade. He turned around, examining them with a critical eye.

“Yes. These will do nicely.”

If he could have shuddered, he would have at the doctor's almost-gentle touch. But, as it were, he was barely conscious. The way that the doctor smiled at him, however, was not unlike the way that Mathias smiled at those he was about to smash into bloody paste when he was consumed by a mad rage. And-

A needle. Large, and silver. Why was he strapped to the chair if the sedative would keep him motionless? It was really overkill, just like the size of the needle. If he could have screamed, he would have. He would have shouted and railed, thrashed and fought to escape.

But he could not, and so he would try not to think about whatever it was that the mad doctor was going to do to him.

It was like a sick sort of penance, really. That he had murdered and raped, only to escape any sort of punishment. A gentle sentence to a comfortable asylum, years spent in solitary until he was deemed same enough to walk the halls and go to the rec room with other patients. And now, with this tantalizingly beautiful doctor, he was finding the punishment he had been meant to face.

An act of God or fate; either way he knew that he deserved it on some level.

But did he accept it? Hardly.

No, as soon as he could move, he would be fighting.

Arthur sat his instruments aside, laid out on a tray. He pulled a large wax candle and a box of matches out from a drawer, setting them on the table as well. Sterility was still needed. He was a professional after all.

Which brought another thought to mind. This would be messy work, even with the steadiest of hands. He best not return upstairs with blood on his clothes. That would give away the game. No one would approve of his…alternative methods.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, smiling at the sheer mockery of that statement even as he said it. He went past the door that separated his lab from rest of the basement, with its boxes of old records and large furnace and along one wall a set of rusty lockers. In here he found sets of old scrubs that would suit his purposes just fine. He considered taking them to the other room and changing there where Francis could see him, since it had become obvious the Frenchman desired him. But no, he would not cater to that particular fixation. Not yet anyway.

He removed the spare sedative from his lab coat and slipped out of his professional attire. He felt exposed and excited to be so bare in such an unconventional place. He folded his clothes and put them aside, slipping into the scrubs and grabbing the syringe before returning to his dear patient. He set the sedative alongside the rest of his tools and picked up the long silver needle. He gazed at it in fascination. It was a scare tactic, mostly. The thing itself wasn’t very effective for bloodletting. It hurt like hell, though.

Arthur trailed the point of the needle lightly over Francis’s forearm and wrist, enjoying the gleam of the shiny metal against the pale skin. Oh where to begin…

He brought the instrument over to the candle, letting it sit in the flame until it glowed hot and then giving it a moment to cool. This would be pointless if he cauterized the wound after all. The silver bowl he placed on the floor under the armrest and the needle he brought back to graze the flesh once more. He settled the point of the needle just above wrist, angling it so it was as horizontal as possible. There would be no words of comfort. No gentle touch. Francis needed to be afraid. He should be afraid.

Locking eyes with the patient once more, Arthur tilted his head, scrutinizing Francis’s expression. And then, smiling once again, he plunged the needle forth penetrating and sliding beneath the skin.

If he could have screamed, could have forced his mouth to open and his throat to work, he would have. He would have howled, screeched. Thrashed and fought, snarling and mad with rage. Rage and fear, anger and an all-consuming terror.

The needle was inside him. It was scraping under his skin, letting his hot, crimson blood splatter to the bowl- he'd barely caught a glimpse of it- resting on the floor. And the smile on the doctor's face, full of sincerity and fury. Beautiful and captivating, full of a sea of emotions and torment.

But he could not move, couldn't do any of the things he wanted to do. That he needed to do. Because of that drug, the sedative that he should have seen coming but didn't. A terrible misstep, one that was now costing him dearly.

He should be fighting, should be shouting and scr-

His eyes fixed on the crimson spill of his blood, mind temporarily derailing. Beautiful. The slick redness of it, the coppery scent he couldn't quite smell yet. But he would. There was so much of it, hot and thick. It was fascinating, the sluggish way it traced down his skin. The exotic color of it, the patterns it left behind on his skin. Lovely.

Almost as lovely as the burning emerald eyes fixed on him, the terrible fairness of the man's skin. His cheekbones were so pronounced, his jaw firm. He looked even more beautiful from this angle, less a demon and more a tortured, avenging angel.

Gorgeous.

It was almost enough to distract him from the pain. It would have been, had the needle not been slicing through his skin, slipping through his flesh like butter.

And all he could do was whimper, try to squirm the tiniest bit.

Arthur smiled with sadistic satisfaction as Francis began to bleed, the Frenchman's eyes displaying the terror his body could not. The needle, sharp despite its age, slid effortlessly under the pale skin and created a slight bulge so that Arthur could see exactly where he was and how deep he had penetrated. At least he could if the doctor was actually watching it. As fascinating as the assault on the flesh was, he was far more interested in watching Francis.

Even though the man couldn't move, couldn't speak, Arthur found himself staring into his face. He tried to discern what must have been going through his patient's mind as the procedure continued. There was no doubt that Francis was fully aware of what was happening. The feeble whimpers told the tale of a man suffering. 'Good,' Arthur though. 'If he can be aware of his surrounds now, there was hope for his sanity yet.' The patient's eyes met his own and Arthur held that gaze. He wondered if, after this, Francis still harbored that strange desire for him. Perhaps it had even grown as a result of their therapy session. Francis's mind was sick enough for such a thing to happen.

Arthur smirked. Perhaps indulgence would be the key to their breakthrough.

Francis was bleeding more than Arthur had expected from a simple needle. He must have nicked a larger vessel. Aound the site where the needle entered the skin, blood leaked pass, dripping over the pale arm and into the bowl below with a steady drip. Slowly, Arthur began to withdraw the needle, slipping it smoothly out and away. With the obstruction removed, the patient bled more freely, the sound of the drip into to bowl increasing in frequency so that now it was a wet patter. He watched it fall for a moment, thinking that there was indeed an appeal to it. He couldn't blame the patient for fantasizing about, unhealthy as it was. It was beautiful in its own way, the way it pooled and flowed and contrasted against the pale skin of the Frenchman's arm...

But these were not thoughts sane men were supposed to have. But in Arthur's case it was ok. As a doctor he should be intimately aware of his patient's madness.

He put the bloody needle aside, grabbing his other tool. He heated the triangular blade in the candle's fire as he had the needle before. The soft smile on his face and the reflection of the fire and hot metal in his eyes gave him a haunting appearance and a peak into his mind would have been all the more disturbing. He slide the instrument over the skin of Francis's arm, a few inches away from the still bleeding needle hole, leaving a crimson trail behind it. He traced over the cut with the blade again, deepening it. And again. And again. Until the repeated shallow cuts had developed into a large, precise gash. With a final pass, the flow of blood increased significantly, the target artery having been reached. He grinned, looking on at his handiwork with pride. He put the tool aside and grabbed the bowl off the floor, lifting it to better catch the heavier flow.

He stared back a Francis again, a thoughtful expression on his face and smiling still, always smiling, always pleased when he got to work freely like this, unrestrained by the limitations of conventional medicine or conventional thought. The nearly full bowl of blood felt heavy in his hand, his fingers itching for the next phase to begin.

"You've done well today, Francis," he said. "Even before the drugs, you honest outburst let me know just what direction your therapy needed to go towards. It was enlightening, and I thank you for it. Things will progress much more quickly now..." He brought the bowl higher and closer to himself, the blood now dripping to the floor. "I'm going to reward you now, Francis. I'm going to give you what you wanted..."

Arthur held the bowl with both hands, and watched the patient closely. He hoped the drugs had worn off enough for him to be able to witness Francis's full reaction. "I believe you said you liked the way I looked in red...I trust this is what you meant."

In a fluid motion, he lifted the bowl over his head and poured the contents over himself, feeling the hot crimson liquid splash against his hair and face and down his clothes, spreading and blossoming in dark patches across the material.

'This is what it is to be mad,' Arthur thought casually to himself as the blood dripped off his chin and down his neck. 'Every doctor should experience his patient's disease...this is what makes me so good at my job...I know what it takes, I know how to save them...Just like I was...'

Gorgeous, lovely, beautiful, stunning.

Despite the pain, the haunting still-there burn of the blade on his arm, he could not help but stare longingly at the blood. It dripped down along the blond's hair, staining the fair locks red. It trailed down his cheeks, a grotesque mockery of tears. The contrast of the crimson against the alabaster of the man's skin was simply delectable, the sharp clash of the red with his emerald eyes enchantingly delicious.

The blood then flowed down his chin to his throat, the red spill inching under his scrubs. How he longed to lean forward, lick the salty-wet from his skin, taste it and him, run his fingertips along those high cheekbones and smear the blood like some sort of war paint across his cheeks. Exquisite, so captivating that he could not turn away.

But the sight sickened him. It was wrong, somehow, for this to be happening. For him to be enjoying this, craving this. It was twisted, sick. And the sensation of it sent unpleasant thrills down his spine.

His arm hurt. He couldn't move it, couldn't feel his fingers. Was there supposed to be that much blood? Was that natural? It didn't seem like...

His thoughts were starting to grow jumbled. He couldn't focus, eyes darting from the now-empty bowl of blood to the dazzling man, and then to his ruined arm. The skin was torn, rent open to release his blood. This was important, somehow. It was wrong, the sight of the blood oozing from his cut flesh was vaguely disturbing.

He didn't know why, though, so he dismissed it. The sight before him- what a sight- was far more important than his hurting, throbbing appendage. He wanted to capture the image forever, burn it into his mind. Arthur Kirkland, soaked in his blood. A wild smile on his face, dark eyes scorching as they stared back at him.

He parted his lips, a low sigh worming from him. It was the loudest sound he could manage, eyes sweeping from the crown of the man's head to his stained shirt. Lovely.

He wanted to touch him, feel that soft skin under his hands. A familiar lust, but one he couldn't act upon. Not yet.

Patience was a virtue, though. He could wait for the drugs to wear off.

And then Arthur would be at his mercy, he would be the one forced to watch and be able to do nothing. He would be able to touch him, caress that pale flesh, and the doctor would not be able to do anything about it.

The blood was still warm against his skin and oddly soothing as well as it flowed over him, painting him in crimson. Some of it fell over his lips and he tasted the coppery tang. He didn't wipe any of it away, not even from his eyes. He wanted to keep the natural drip pattern it had formed on its own preserved as long as possible. That was the image he was going for.

A steady drip drip could still be heard, but he wasn't sure if it was falling from himself or Francis and he didn't really care either. It didn't make a difference. They had moved on to the next stage of therapy and it didn't matter if Francis kept bleeding or not. What was important now was to inspire new emotions in the patient, emotions that conflicted with his fear and pain. Arthur wanted to bombard Francis with extremes, sent him to hell and then heaven and back again until he broke from his insanity. These things that would madden a sane man might well have the opposite effect on an already sick mind.

It was worth a try anyway, as far as Arthur was concerned. What more harm could be done to the poor, sick man? Surely the chance that he could be cured was worth any suffering he may feel now. Francis would surely agree when he was well again.

A struggled sigh and way in which the Frenchman's eyes followed him, unwavering, were the only clues Arthur had to what was going on in the patient's mind, but these were enough to tell him that Francis was enjoying the show. Arthur was pleased by this, his haunting smile widening. He wished for more expression, though. He couldn't help but feel like he was missing out due to the drug's effects, but there simply wasn't much to be done about it.

"Is this similar to the things you fantasize about, Francis?" he asked, knowing the patient couldn't answer but not really needing him to. "Does this fulfill your desire for carnage? Does the fact that it is your own blood hinder your enjoyment?"

He leaned in closer, the flame of the candle reflecting slightly off the blood. He wanted Francis to be able to get a good long look. "My hope is that seeing your fantasy played out in real life will make you less inclined to throw your sanity away for the sake of your illusions. I believe that you enjoy your hallucinations, whatever you may claim. And if you enjoy it, you won't want to get better. We can't have that..."

He reached his bare, empty hand out and for the first time with gentle intent, he touched Francis, lightly stroking the pale cheek with his fingertips and leaving red streaks in their wake. "You simply must get better, Francis, if there is to be any hope for you..."

The reflection of the light- candles were always so dramatic, and given the darkness of the room, the candlelight was simply illuminating- off of the crimson blood made his breath hitch. It was so, so breathtakingly lovely.

But it was wrong. So very, very wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, with blood and hatred and an ache that was slowly, slowly becoming a fiery burn in his arm. He was bleeding, and it wasn't stopping. It hurt, the dullness of the pain sharpening to something that would surely become unbearable.

Wrong.

Arthur was filthy, dirty and tainted and he was always supposed to be clean, the white knight to his black, nevermind all the red and crimson and the saltiness of blood on his lips-

In all his hours of insanity, Francis Bonnefoy had never felt quite so unstable. Just the way he was leaning towards him, green-emerald-fire eyes burning with anger-fear-hunger and something so twisted that he saw every day in the mirror when he cared to look in the morning, was more than enough to set him off. His heart was pounding.

He could feel it in his throat, in his mind. In his throbbing arm, in the way his breath shuddered from between his lips. But he could part his lips now, let his sigh gush from his lungs.

The drug was wearing off.

Doubtlessly, the man had more. Those syringes could be hidden anywhere. (If this moment were not so dark, so twisted and beautiful, he would have delighted in finding them hidden on the doctor's body.) But, if he had more, he could not possibly hope to overpower him.

It would have to be fast.

And he sincerely doubted that he would be able to move fast with several pints of blood missing. It would be logical to plan, to scheme for when he could take advantage, wreak his revenge on the doctor's unwilling body-

And then he touched him, fingers dragging across his cheek in a mimicry of a caress.

Logic promptly flew out the window.

He strained into the touch, a snarl hissing through his teeth as his body refused to obey. He wanted more, more of that touch, of the hot wetness of blood against his cheek.

More would not be enough. He wanted it all, wanted to rip and tear and rend until he got what he wanted, felt that too-soft skin against his and revel in it.

He keened, low in his throat. Why was the doctor talking? He wanted to be touched, didn't care about what he was mattering on about-


(Long post is long to make up for like. Two week gap in replies. :D?)

In a more fit state of mind, Arthur would have taken note of the subtle hints that the drug was starting to wear off with concern. Instead, he was delighted by finally seeing some response, however slight. Of finally seeing Francis’s fear, enjoyment, and anger played out beyond those clear blue expressive eyes. The sigh, the strained movement….it brought greater satisfaction to his actions. The potential danger it posed did not yet register.

The brief caress netted him the most significant reaction – a hiss, a slight movement, and fierce desire burning in those eyes. Francis clearly craved contact. Arthur could easily think of less pleasant means of therapy…for both of them. The Frenchman was so helpless, so damaged and vulnerable. Arthur had to admit he liked him this way. The image was tantalizing. His patient, completely at his mercy, pale and beautiful in the candlelight.

It was a reasonable course of treatment, he rationalized, to indulge in this further. If it was the patient’s fantasy and the goal was to stir those emotions, then the only practical course of action was to press on and touch him more, to feel the cool ivory skin beneath his fingers again.

Any doctor worth his salt would see that.

Slowly, deliberately, Arthur stretched his fingertips out once more, grazing Francis’s throat and sliding down his neck. He smiled, watching his own hand move, reaching the collarbone and tracing it with his touch. Magnificent. Simply magnificent…

He put his other hand upon Francis’s in a move that would have been considered comforting in almost any other situation. The man’s hand was cold beneath his and it was no wonder. Lack of blood flow would do that and Francis had not yet stopped bleeding on his own. It would do neither of them any good if he passed out from blood loss.

Arthur pressed his bare hand against the wound to stem the flow, applying pressure and waiting for the clot to form. He held that position and watched Francis’s face once again, seeing more expression there. He couldn’t resist pressing on. He took hold of the man’s chin in his fingers, maintaining pressure on the wound.

“I said I could make you mine, didn’t I?” He leaned in and pressed his lips against the patient’s finding them warm in comparison to the rest of the flesh he had experienced thus far.

He replied with a ragged groan, arm flexing beneath the hand that held his wound and lips parting the tiniest bit under the pressure of the doctor's. Take own mine his allhisnothing- His thoughts were running together, blind desire and heat taking the place of his terror and restrained want.

And how could he dream of being restrained, when Arthur was painting him red with his own blood?

More.

He needed more, needed to feel and taste and revel in it all, go crazy in the lust and the pleasure that could only come from one thing. That could only be triggered by this one man, this creature that was as mad as he was.

It was almost comforting to see the matching humanity in the man's eyes as he saw in his own.

He leaned into the touch, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His moves were still sluggish- strained, almost painful- but it was entirely worth it to get closer. He wanted to feel him, wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted since before-

Hands stained with blood, all his fault but the want wouldn't stop, the desire couldn't be tamed even as he was dragged away-

He growled, straining against the bonds holding him still. His arm ached, but that was nothing compared to how his whole body longed, how it thrummed with need and pain and a delicious hypersensitivity that only came with the madness that coursed through his veins, burning out the sedative.

Distantly, Francis wondered how the man- the doctor- saw him. Was he pale? Did his blood stain him crimson the same way it did the doctor? Was he as coldly appealing, as sallow and pale as the doctor?

But that mattered little. He had to get closer, feel him and make him feel.

"Arthur..."

Francis responded enthusiastically, even restrained by drug and bonds. He used what little freedom was permitted to him to lean closer, to part his lips, to say his name… Arthur could not help but respond to it. He had no reason not to. They were alone, there were no security cameras, and Francis was safely secured and clinically insane. Even if he did make a claim, who would believe him?

This moment was perfect, beautiful, intoxicating…. Arthur would be a fool to let it slip through.

He removed the pressure from the wound, which seemed to have stopped bleeding. The crimson coated hand lifted and, breaking the kiss, he pressed his index finger against those soft rose petal lips, shushing the Frenchman.

“Doctor. Not Arthur. You are still the patient here. This is still therapy. Do not forget that.”

That said, he removed his finger and gazed on admiringly at the bloody smudge it left behind. He tilted his head, smirking. Leaning in, he lapped at stain, brushing his tongue hungrily over Francis’s lips, the metallic taste of the blood filling his mouth. He claimed the man in a kiss again, his tongue pushing past those parted lips to explore beyond. His fingertips ran lightly down the patient’s throat and over his chest. The man was so pale, his skin clammy from the blood loss but smooth as porcelain under his touch. The bloodied hand ran through Francis’s hair, tainting the feathery blond locks.

Arthur felt a more physical desire start to burn within him. It was over-stimulating, all the blood and skin and power. He wanted more. He would have it.

Without breaking the kiss, he reached for the tray beside them, sweeping over the spare sedative and the other tools to grab the blade he had used on Francis. Slipping it delicately between the man’s skin and shirt he brought it down, the cloth giving way with some minor snagging and tugging to reveal the bare skin beneath. Arthur brought both hands to the newly exposed flesh, flattening his palms against it as he pressed Francis against the back of the chair kissing him eagerly, impatiently, dominatingly…

Arthur wanted him. Wanted him for his own. Wanted to claim him and make him moan and writhe. And there was nothing to prevent him from doing just that.

"O-Oui. Doctor." He managed to gasp out between kisses, hands reaching for some sort of grip on the man and failing. His arms were still bound, after all. But the bleeding was stopped- not that that really mattered to him, not when Arth- the doctor was climbing atop him, hands and lips and mouth everywhere.

And then his shirt is gone, those cold-warm-burning hands skimming his skin and feeling, an almost-caress. He arches into the touch, low whimpers and encouraging hisses escaping his blood-smeared lips. Pleasepleaseplease more more he needs more of this-

If he were sane, he would be embarrassed by his shameless groans, his keens for more contact, more pressure against his cold skin.

"S-S'il vous plaît. J'ai besoin plus, D-Docteur. S'il vous plaît..." The gasp is torn from him, barely coherent and in a language he hasn't spoken more than a few words in for a long, long time. But he doesn't care what he's saying, as long as it gets him more.

The lust is unbearable, burning and uncomfortably hot. But it's a heat even his madness is familiar with, and what is familiar is good.

At least, that's how his animalistic mind reasons.

And that reasoning is enough for him. Not that he really needs reasoning, but later, when he does care, it will be enough.

So he rolls his hips upwards, hoping to press against something, anything that could provide some sort of friction to ease the burning, scorching fire in his abdomen. He needs relief, wants it so badly he can taste it-

"Doctor!" He gasps, straining against the bonds fettering him to the chair. He can't see for the need, eyes rolling as he tried to lock eyes with the man straddling him.

The man was so vocal now, so needy and demanding. Groaning and squirming and begging in his native tongue for something only Arthur could provide for him. The level of control, of command… was exhilarating. And the constant utterances of “doctor” were more arousing than he would have expected them to be.

He broke the string of kisses in order to look down at his patient. The way he strained against the bonds now and the way he rocked his hips in a desperate attempt to be touched. The fact that the drugs had apparently worn off should have set off alarms in his brain, but it was far too clouded by the image before him and the thoughts of all the wonderful horrific things he could do to the man. That he would do.

He looked into Francis’s eyes, blue, alive with lust, and gazing back at him. He wondered fleetingly if there was a single sane thought left behind those eyes or if desire had replaced everything. Not that it really mattered for this exercise. His state of mind after was what would make the difference. Right now sanity was hardly required of either of them.

He broke the eye contact and leaned in close kissing softly at the crook of Francis’s neck and shoulder before running his tongue up the length of the man’s throat, ending at his ear which Arthur nipped at, lightly licking over the lobe. His hands ghosted over the muscles of the man’s chest, dipping down as low as his abdomen, but no lower, no, not yet.

His skin was starting to feel sticky and stiff as the blood dried, but he paid this no heed, focusing instead on touching, feeling, tasting… The Frenchman demanded more and Arthur was willing to give it.

But only on his terms…

He hissed out a groan when those hands stopped short, just above his waist. He needed contact, thirsted for it as if he were a dehydrated man and the touch would bring cold, wet relief down his throat. He'd never been this overwhelmed before, never felt so angry and frustrated and consumed.

He wants this, craves this loss of control. It's what he thrives on, what the madness and the drugs are all about. Loss of control, and regaining it. Well, this time he does not want to regain it.

He arches up into the touch, moaning and needy. The mouth at his throat, at his ear, is hot. Welcome, wet and lingering.

"D-Doctor..." His hands cannot move, and he can barely move the rest of his body. But he tries nonetheless, tugging at the buckles and the braces. He can't stand not being able to touch, not being able to feel.

Arthur is offering himself- is taking him- and he cannot relish it. Cannot reciprocate. He glared, eyes narrowed with frustration and lust.

But the lips touching him are too distracting, and he stops glaring to keen, low in his throat. He wants so many things- most involving more contact- and cannot utter them.

He turns his head, trying to catch the doctor's lips with his own.

"Please..." He aches, muscles clenching and trembling.

He could not help but smile at Francis’s growing frustration. The teasings, the subtle caresses, the light nips and kisses…Arthur could almost taste the man’s hunger in the air. With each brush of flesh against flesh, the need grew. Arthur had the power to end it, could show the man mercy if he felt so inclined.

And judging by the swelling desire that was growing within him, the time for teasing was quickly passing.

He moved away from Francis’s ear and denied the kiss that the man sought. Not because Arthur didn’t want to return it, but because the man tried to claim it in the first place. This was about giving him what he wanted, but not in any way that yielded Arthur’s dominance. He would claim those lips again when he was good and ready.

Arthur looked down at the man, fascinated by how he strained and struggled and moaned. So vulgar and so beautiful…

“Since you ask so nicely,” he cooed. He ran a single finger down from the base of the Frenchman’s throat over the length of his chest and abdomen and finally over the groin, where it lingered, feeling Francis’s excitement through the material of his pants. A grin spread wide across the doctor’s face. Dipping down, he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses on his patient’s throat, tasting the salt of his perspiration. He spread his fingers and palm over the crotch and delicately began to stroke. It was a light pressure, a smooth touch, and he felt Francis respond almost immediately.

His other hand still held the blade. He ran the smooth flat side of it against the skin of the man’s chest, the cold metal glinting against the ivory paleness. Here and there he would flick the blade, leaving a small tear in the flesh that bled lightly. He steadily builds up the intensity of his attention between the man’s legs, rubbing more forcefully, feeling the heat and arousal built not only in Francis but in himself.

With the madman’s grin on his face once more, Arthur turned his attention from the man’s neck southward, pulling his hand away from his patient’s crotch and replacing it with the blade. He ghosted the metal over that most sensitive of areas before finally sliding beneath the button of the man’s trousers and flicking it off with a smooth fluid motion. Putting the tool aside (at least for the time being) his nimble finger found the zipper and slowly tugged it down, eyes locked on Francis’s expression as he did so.

He wanted to watch. Wanted to savor this moment. Wanted to see this poor forsaken creature catch a taste of bliss as guided by Arthur's own hand. He would take him and ravish him and make him scream.

All in the name of medical science of course.

He hissed raggedly, hips jerking against the bonds that held him down so tortuously. The hand on his hardening skin brings white-hot pleasure and lust, the blade slicing into his skin pain. An almost perfect balance, pleasure and pain and heat, such heat as the doctor pressed wet kisses to his all-too-sensitive skin. It's exactly what Francis craves- and exactly what he should not, cannot have.

That is the only sane, lucid thought in his mind. That, somehow, this was wrong, that this shouldn't be happening.

He ignores it, need and desire swamping him. This is so much better than he'd ever imagined, skilled hands pressing against him, stroking and firm. Desire to match his, madness equal to his.

"Doc-Docteur, s'il vous plait!" He groans, hands tightening into fists. A whine escapes him, animal and high. But he can't bring himself to care about humiliation, not with the doctor's knife and hand removing his pants and his eyes- green, so brilliantly green- fixed on his face. He felt a sharp stab of fear when the cool of the blade had ghosted near his arousal, but it had only served to intensify it.

"Laisse moi te toucher." It's a beg, a whine, a plead. His hands ache with the need to feel, to stroke. He's always been the one to touch, to explore; while he does not reject the turn-about, it is so hard to not touch the milky-white skin before him, run his finger through the sandy-blond hair until it is a ruffled, tousled mess.

But he's soon lost in the feel of fingers tugging down his pants, eyes rolling with the pleasure of it. He can't possibly stay focused, not with drugs pumping through his system and this beautifully deadly man before him.

"More."

For a moment, he considers giving into the pleas, to cut his momentary lover free so that they could engage in this forbidden and oh so wrong affair, rolling about in heat and passion until both are spent… But no. No there would be none of that. His patient could not be trusted, was far too dangerous to allow him to do as he pleased. And the sight of him like this… his hands white with the strain of trying to pull free, face contorted in frustration and delicious agony. How could he ever be more desirable than this? What could be more perfect, more beautiful, than if he were to take the poor maddened patient in this vulnerable state? Arthur could think of nothing.

The doctor locked eyes with Francis and shook his head wordlessly. He would not give in. Oh, but he still liked to hear the begging, the desperation, the sheer need in the helpless man’s voice. And in the depths here, stone walls on every side, Francis could keen and moan and cry all he wanted and no one would hear him.

And Arthur would make sure that Francis did. He would be screaming before they were done.

Ignoring the Frenchman’s words and whimpers, Arthur leaned forward and pressed his lips to perspiration dampened skin of the man’s chest and kissed a trail up to his neck as his fingers slide into the waistband of Francis’s trousers and tugged them and the underwear slowly down. His hand wrapped immediately around his patient’s throbbing arousal, stroking it slowly but firmly and grinning as he watched Francis’ face contort in anguished pleasure. He circled the swollen head with his thumb, smearing the leaking fluids and teasing, constantly teasing.

Even the baggy scrubs were beginning to feel tight and uncomfortable with his own growing need. The material of his clothes was stiffening with the drying blood and he wanted free of it. Pulling back from Francis and standing straight up, Arthur pulled the ruined shirt off and threw it onto the stone floor, the pants following soon after. His skin shown bare and pale in the light, dirtied here and there from blood that had soaked through. He looked down at the struggling patient, so sad and pathetic with his obvious need that he could do nothing to satisfy. Arthur would take pity on him now, would be his angel of mercy, would show him pleasure and pain the likes of which even his sick, vulgar mind had never dreamed.

Of course, to do this the way it was meant to be done, he would have to undo at least a few of the straps. A fact he didn’t like, but one that was unavoidable if he was going to enjoy this fully. And really it would be a waste not to.

He rested a knee on the chair between Francis’ legs and bent over him, taking hold of that long, luxurious hair and pulling it back, forcing the man to look upwards and at him. Arthur dipped lower and pressed his lips to the Frenchman’s. He sucked upon those lips and dipped his tongue passed to sweep along the ridges of teeth within. A low moan of anticipation escaped him as his free hand went to the binding at Francis’ chest and began to unfasten it.

Yes, yes, yes yes yesyesyesyes. He gasps in delight when Arthur starts to unstrap him, jerking into the pleasuring-punishing hand on his cock with a moan. He can't move very much- the bindings don't permit it -but just the feel of the hand, long-fingered and delicate, on his burning, swollen skin is enough to wrench a cry from between his lips.

And Arthur is kissing him, rough and merciless, and he can't get enough of the passion and the violence. His mouth is hot, his tongue demanding as it sweeps through his mouth and over his teeth. Gorgeous. And he wants- needs -more, more contact and heat and pleasure-pain. He's so aroused that it hurts, cock twitching uncomfortably every few moments with need. Arthur is in control, there's no doubting that, but he'd been the one pulling his puppet strings to get him in this position.

And, God, how he loved it. He was just teasing him, of course, but it was too much. Too much pain, too much violence, too much heat and pleasure and delicious, delicious skin pressed against his own, willingly. "Please." Is all he can moan, hips trying to buck but failing. "Let me touch you." He wants to feel that skin, taste it and rake his nails down it. Feel it slick with blood and sweat and semen. "Doctor."

He groans mindlessly, tongue sliding against the invasion of his mouth. He's not bleeding, not anymore, but the vertigo and dizziness just make it all so much better. There's an ethereal quality to it all, like one of his frequent dreams.

But it can't be a dream, because the pain and the heat is too much to bear, and nothing his tortured, drugged mind could ever hope to create.

He wants Arthur to fuck him. Press him against the cold, stone wall and thrust into him dry and hard. No stretching, no lube, nothing between them but skin and blood and abused nerves. Lubrication would make it easy, but Francis doesn't do things the easy way, and he wants the pain. It makes everything clearer, just as the pleasure makes it all so damnably dreamlike. But he needs to feel that skin under his hands, first. Map it with his fingers and his mouth; lick away the bloodstains and the grime.

And then he wants him to bend him over the chair shoved between his knees, have his way with him. Make him beg and cry out and scream for more, more.

Francis is far gone, and even in Arthur’s own deranged state, he knows it. He can sense it in every uncensored keen that leaves the Frenchman’s lips, every shameless grinding of the hips, every needy swipe of the tongue.

And Arthur is slipping further as well. His moves become less methodical, less patient as his hands run greedily over his patient’s hairy chest, gliding over the muscles and the buds of his nipples and shuddering when Francis moans in response. The doctor leans closer in, answering Francis’ pleas only with more demanding and insistent kisses. Arthur loves being called “doctor” in this situation. It adds an even greater feeling of power to his already clear dominance. He kisses the corners of Francis’ mouth and his cheeks and his scruffy chin and jawline, feeling the roughness of it scratching against his lips, feeling so much better than he would have guessed. He purposefully avoids locking lips, not wanting to stem the beautifully arousing flow that was issuing forth from Francis.

He takes rough hold of the man’s hair, pulling his head back again and attacking his throat with a barrage of rough nips and licks. Francis’s skin is pale and creamy smooth here and Arthur can taste the salt of the man’s sweat against his tongue. He has enough sense left in him to settle on lower spot near his shoulder that could be easily concealed before biting down hard enough to taste the coppery tinge of blood against his lips. Combined with the resulting sound it was bliss and Arthur let his eyes flutter closed for a moment so that he could focus upon it and enjoy it for all it was worth.

He needed more room to move, growing increasingly aware of how the restraints he had been grateful for before were now impeding him. He gave a slow lick to the fresh bite before letting go of Francis’ hair and reaching down to undo the straps at his legs. Francis was weakened, Francis was lost in arousal, and Arthur couldn’t fuck him with those damn straps in the way, so the risk it posed was minimal in the doctor’s mind.

And even with the leg restraints gone, it was still not right. The chair was too low, too hard to move around. He would never be able to do it properly like this, where he couldn’t rake his nails down his back and pull his hair and throw him against the stones and fuck him in the animalistic fashion that Arthur so craved.

He ran his tongue along Francis’ inner thigh, taking hold of the throbbing member again and pumping, his own hard and ready and twitching in anticipation as his free hand began to loosen the last of the restraints.