Chapter Text
Chapter 0:
“Shawn~!”
Sentinel still wasn’t used to the name. It wasn’t a fake name, per say. He liked Strade far too much to introduce himself with a pseudonym. In fact, it was the name he’d been assigned at birth, a name that had followed him for twenty or so years before it had been unceremoniously discarded along with his past life, well over a century ago. He was Sentinel now, an inhuman unfeeling android, given a body of flesh to inhabit. So why did the sound of the name on Strade’s lips make Sentinel’s handcrafted heart flutter in his chest?
“Earth to Shawn~! Aren’t you going to help me set up, Liebling? You know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.” Strade crooned, his voice rich and sweet, with only the slightest hint of a threat behind it.
Sentinel blinked as he snapped back to reality. He’d been far too spacy recently. Maybe it was the torture, but Sentinel suspected otherwise. He always got a bit out of it within a few weeks of occupying a human body. There simply wasn’t enough processing power available compared to what he was used to. And it didn’t help that human bodies were so high maintenance and fickle. But Strade wanted a toy that bled, and Sentinel wasn’t one to disappoint. “Ah- Of course! I’ll get my table ready.” Sentinel replied hurriedly, ducking his head as he scurried over to Strade’s cabinets. Sentinel was looking forward to this too. It had been a long time since he’d been able to take someone apart, and he was getting antsy.
He could feel Strade’s bright eyes boring into him as he began to arrange items on the workbench. Could almost sense him taking note of every single miniscule choice. A saw, several blades, some clamps, pliers, a blowtorch, and an icepick were soon laid out on the table, Strade’s excitement clearly growing as each tool was neatly put in place. Sentinel really didn’t like the thought of using such crude tools on a patient, but Strade kept his equipment sharp, and Sentinel was an expert in his field.
The diathermy needle came next. It was homemade, rigged together using some of Strade’s scrap electronic equipment, and far too bulky for Sentinel’s liking. After spending so long working with electronics on a microscopic level, assembling regular sized hardware felt like playing with children’s toys. It was hardly an ideal tool, but it was the best he could assemble on short notice. It was practically impossible to complete a large scale operation without something to stop the bleeding.
He’d had to test it on himself of course. It hurt, but the wounds sealed cleanly and the blood loss was minimal. Strade had insisted on watching, and something about that thrilled Sentinel. How easy it was to seduce his captor with a few well placed cuts. He could see it in Strade’s eyes, that irresistible bloodlust. He was addicted to Sentinel’s destruction, and Sentinel loved every second of it.
When he retrieved his final item- a first aid kit, and turned back to the workbench, Sentinel had to stifle a sharp gasp. Strade leaned casually against the edge, barely half a meter away from Sentinel’s face, toying with the icepick, an unreadable smile stretched across his face. “Mmm~ I didn’t think you of all people would be the type to try a lobotomy! What did you say before? That they’re ’crude and outdated’?”
Sentinel took a step back, an expression of guilt flashing across his face. “Sometimes- Sometimes ethics have to be loosened for the sake of discovery. I mean obviously if you had a device that could stimulate small sections of brain tissue with minimal damage I’d use it but-”
He was interrupted by a bright, genuine laugh from Strade that made his stomach fill with butterflies. “Ahaha! That’s why I like you, Käferchen!” He reached across the workbench to ruffle Sentinel’s hair affectionately.
Sentinel blushed slightly at the nickname. He’d downloaded enough German into his newly crafted brain to know what it meant. ’Little beetle’ A relatively common German term of endearment. Sentinel didn't know why Strade settled on it, but it was far more accurate than the killer could possibly know. The vast majority of his many bodies were tiny drones resembling common insects. Innocuous enough to pass by unnoticed while Sentinel took in the world through hundreds of tiny camera eyes.
“... Because I’m resourceful…?” Sentinel prompted cautiously, picking up the abandoned icepick and placing it carefully back into position.
Strade shook his head, seeming almost endeared by Sentinel’s tentative response. “Because you’re committed, of course! You’re willing to sacrifice every principle you have left for the sake of discovery.”
“And? So are you. It’s nothing too unusual…” He couldn’t meet Strade’s eyes.
“So sweet! You’re the first person I’ve ever met who knows about my hobbies and thinks I have any principles!”
“...It’s because you’re kind…” Sentinel responded, but it was mostly for himself. Strade had already turned away, crossing the room to examine the limp body slumped against a pole at the far wall. She was Strade’s latest ‘guest’, one he had prepared specifically for tonight's show. He’d even let Sentinel partially sever her spinal cord to paralyze her, though it took quite a bit of convincing. Sentinel had needed to assure Strade that she’d still be able to feel pain nearly a dozen times before he’d finally relented.
He’d been very careful, but it still wasn’t a procedure Sentinel was used to. Not only did he usually work in a way that would guarantee minimal harm, he also almost always shut off his patients’ pain receptors before he started any sort of surgical endeavor. Sentinel might have been a killer, but he wasn’t a sadist. Still, this was far from his usual routine. It was a performance, something akin to one of Strade’s infamous snuff streams. Sentinel could talk all he wanted about doing his vivisections in the name of discovery alone, but in this case it would be a transparent lie. This one was undeniably fetishistic, something designed almost exclusively for Stade’s pleasure. A strip show where living, organic layers took the place of clothes.
The thump of the woman’s- no, his subject’s body hitting the workbench brought Sentinel back to the present. Strade had already taken the liberty of stripping her- he’d insisted on doing it before Sentinel paralyzed her. Sentinel wasn’t jealous. Of course he wasn’t! It wasn’t necessarily something sexual for Strade, he just liked seeing people react in distress. That was all. So why did the thought still make Sentinel feel acid roil in his stomach and threaten to crawl up his throat?
He distracted himself by looking over the patient's body. She appeared to be in her mid 40s, relatively athletic, and- “Are you certain this one was a good choice of victim? She has an ex partner and possibly an adult child too…” The woman made a muffled noise, inhibited by the cloth gag in her mouth. She was definitely a far cry from the profile of Strade’s preferred victim, but Sentinel supposed his captor must have to make compromises when it came to this one, especially considering the short notice. It was yet another one of his impulsive decisions.
Strade seemed almost charmed by Sentinel’s anxiety. “No need to worry! She’s a widow and her son is estranged. She was very talkative after a few drinks. Isn't that right?” He removed her gag with a playful flourish, only for a torrent of profanities to spew from her mouth. Once it became clear she wasn't stopping any time soon, Strade stuffed the gag back into her open mouth. “See? Talkative!” He grinned at his own joke. “But how did you know all that, Liebchen?”
Sentinel made a noncommittal sound, continuing to examine her skin with a dispassionate gaze. “Two decade old pregnancy stretch marks, a faded tan line on her ring finger. Nothing too obscure.” He took note of a few interesting scars, before glancing back up to meet Strade's eyes. “You should be more careful. People lie all the time. Only bodies tell the truth.” The irony of the statement didn’t escape him. Sentinel had more secrets than all the rest of Strade’s victims combined.
Strade chucked warmly in response. “Aren’t you cynical~?” It sounded almost like a term of endearment coming from his lips.
Sentinel shrugged, turning abruptly back towards his patient in a futile attempt to conceal how easily his face had heated at the warm tone. “... Mm. Not really. Just… Realistic.” He selected a pocket knife from the small collection he’d assembled on the table. It was small and sharp, and- it felt all wrong. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. When Sentinel took people apart, he used his scalpel. It was precise and sharp, and his cuts were so clean they neared painlessness. It was just a medical procedure, nothing more. But with a knife? Well, that was something that felt a lot less like a scientific process and a lot more like torture. Sentinel toyed with the handle, trying to find a natural way to grip it.
His struggles were interrupted by Strade’s cheerful voice. “Oh, I nearly forgot! I have a gift for you!” Sentinel’s eyes darted back up to Strade to find- oh! Sentinel’s scalpel sat neatly in his hand, looking just as perfect as the day Strade had taken it from him.
“...You kept it…” Sentinel was surprised by the quivering in his voice as he took the metal instrument in hand. Tears were welling up in his eyes, and he had no idea why. There wasn’t anything special about it. It didn’t hold any sentimental value at all. It was nothing but a tool. Still, it fit so perfectly in his hand, like an extension of his body. It felt like he was finally himself again.
“Of course I did! It’s important to you, right? You took it to the bar and everything! No normal person does something like that. Ah, but you’re an interesting little thing, aren’t you?” Strade’s words glowed with amusement. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about what you can do with it. You’ve kept me waiting long enough! I want to see you put it to use!”
Sentinel nodded subtly, trying not to let himself be distracted by the praise. He swallowed down his soaring heart to neatly position the scalpel in the dead center of his subject’s chest, just above the sternum. The movements were almost unnaturally precise, hands lacking any of the hesitation or anxious jittering they’d shown on the pocket knife. He hovered the blade over the patient's chest, taking a deliberate pause as he breathed deeply. It was a motion he’d done hundreds of times before, but this time was different. This time, he was putting his heart on display, performing his passions for an eager audience. The silence had a tangible quality to it, like the moment before an orchestra plays. Like the whole world was holding its breath along with him. And in the center of the overwhelming stillness was Sentinel, a conductor about to bring down his wand and summon forth the awe-inspiring melody he found hidden between bonded cells. Even the subject on his table held her breath in preparation.
And then the silence shattered- Sentinel neatly parted his specimen’s chest in one clean stroke, forcing her to sharply exhale all the air in her body. It wasn't a pained breath, no, the blade was far too sharp, the movement far too quick and clean for the subject to even feel it. It was one of utter horror as her organs were exposed to the cold basement air. Before she even had the chance to process her wound, he was already sealing up the raw edges with the diathermy needle. Sentinel gave a sigh of satisfaction, ghosting his gloved fingers over the smooth, bloodless ravine of skin. “You see? That wasn’t so bad, was it? I told you it wouldn’t be as painful as you might expect.” His voice had an almost eerie calmness to it, as if comforting a startled animal. For once, he sounded completely and utterly in control.
“Well? Did it hurt?” Strade asked, eyes sparkling at the novelty of it all as he removed the subject’s gag. His enthusiasm was infectious. Sentinel didn’t know whether Strade’s excitement was from the unveiled organs, or the opportunity to see this new side of him. He suspected it was most likely a bit both.
Unfortunately, Sentinel’s contemplation was interrupted as the subject let out a choked gasp, something between a laugh and a sob. “You’re insane. You’re fucking insane, both of you are. Get away from me!” She clearly wanted so badly to run, but she couldn’t even twitch a finger. She’d never run again. A tragedy, Sentinel thought, but Strade’s pleasure was more than worth the sacrifice.
Strade laughed, a warm, jovial sound that Sentinel couldn’t help but adore. “Ahh~ So harsh! Don’t worry, I like pets that aren’t afraid to bite...”
“I am not your fucking pet!”
Sentinel gave a long-suffering sigh. “I know you’re scared, but that’s no reason to be impolite. All that yelling is giving me a headache… In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly operating in ideal conditions. The more trouble you make for me, the more painful this is going to be for you. And neither of us want that, do we?” ‘Not ideal’ was a very generous description of the conditions, actually. Strade hadn’t even bothered to get Sentinel a proper labcoat, instead dressing him in nothing but a pair of Ren’s old boxers and the shock collar around his neck.
Strade had explained away his lack of clothes as a way to avoid annoying bloodstains, but Sentinel suspected the man had ulterior motives. Especially with how often he caught Strade’s lecherous gaze perusing the cacophony of scars- both faded and fresh- that littered Sentinel’s slight frame. And the man certainly wasn’t deterred by how visibly uncomfortable Sentinel looked in this state of undress. In fact, Strade seemed delighted by the way he pulled at the legs of his boxers and scratched timidly at his newly exposed scars. Even so, Sentinel supposed he should be grateful. He’d been allowed to wear a pair of surgical gloves at least. The familiarly awkward way the latex clung to his skin felt oddly comforting, a sensation he never thought he’d miss.
The subject on the table scowled, looking for a moment like she was going to retort, then shut her mouth again. She shook her head stiffly, mouth pressed into a hard line.
Still, Sentinel couldn’t help but be annoyed by her comments. Acting like he was some sort of monster, when he was just doing his best with what he’d been given. “You should be grateful. I’m not like Strade. I’m not going to torture you. Every single cut I make will be perfectly optimized for your comfort. You’ll have a far more merciful death than he would have ever allowed you.”
She gave a jarring, ugly, bitter laugh that made Sentinel flinch away sharply, a movement like a startled bird taking off in flight. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that fucking nonsense!”
Sentinel forced himself to relax, allowing his face to go carefully blank. He wasn’t lying. Not on purpose at least, but that wasn’t quite the whole story either. He sighed. Why was he bothering listening to the idiotic ramblings of an ungrateful specimen? He should be enjoying this, not indulging her irksome questions. “Whether I believe it or not is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the reality of your situation.”
Sentinel could sense Strade’s attention shift back to him, feel his breath on his cheek as the killer leaned ever so slightly closer. “So evasive!” Sentinel shivered as he felt Strade’s calloused fingers run over the back of his neck, fingers nearly brushing the hard ridges of bone. Far too close to the tiny chip Sentinel had carefully implanted just under his new body’s spine. “Is it really so hard to answer our naughty little Haustier’s question?”
Sentinel chewed at his lip. He wanted to please Strade, but even so- this really wasn’t the sort of question he wanted to be answering right now. Still, the sooner he answered, the sooner the interrogation would end. He wouldn’t lie, of course. Despite all his secrecy, Sentinel despised lying, even to people he was apathetic towards. Lying to Strade was out of the question. “I- you know what? Fine. You win. I don’t believe it. Mercy has never particularly mattered to me. I stick to procedure, because that’s what separates a vivisection from torture.”
This time Strade was the one who laughed, a warm yet intense sound, with all the passion of a crackling hearth fire. “Käferchen, Käferchen… Be serious! Do you really think this isn’t torture? You’re not cutting her open because you want to see her healthy! You’re cutting her open because you can’t help yourself. You need this.”
Sentinel found himself flushing at the accusation. He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean he was right either. Sentinel wasn’t like Strade at all. He wasn’t getting off on it! Just helping Strade get off. There was a distinct difference that wasn’t getting proper acknowledgement here. “I’m doing this for the sake of research. Obviously.” Sentinel had become a master of rationalization over the years. He greedily ate up his own phony justifications with egotistical delight. But still, even now he couldn’t bring himself to meet Strade’s eye.
“Reseach? Really? I didn’t think you seemed all that interested in our new friend!” He wasn’t wrong. Sentinel quite frankly couldn’t care less about her.
“I’m not.” Sentinel admitted. “...She’s not the one I’m researching right now.”
Strade’s eyes sparkled at that, thrilled at the confession. “Ahh~! So I’m the one you want on that operating table of yours…”
Sentinel couldn’t bring himself to deny it. The way the flush across his cheeks darkened at Strade’s remark answered plainly for him. “Not quite yet… You’re too good for improvised tools. When I kill you, I’m going to do it properly.”
Strade grinned. It was a familiar conversation, one they'd had a million times before. One that frequently bordered on flirtation. “So cocky~! What makes you think I won't kill you first?”
Because I have a small army of tiny drones that could inject you with a paralytic agent, at the slightest inclination, Sentinel didn't say. Instead he just gave a polite smile and a subdued shrug. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.” Strade already knew about one of the many murder attempts that had befallen him, but he couldn’t possibly understand the extent. Nearly two centuries of bad choices had led Sentinel here. Two hundred years of exclusively dating men who wanted him dead. What could he say? Sentinel had a type, and he went through men fast. He didn’t mean to, of course, but there really wasn’t anywhere for a relationship to progress after the first murder attempt.
It wasn’t on purpose- at least not at first. But there was something almost addictive about never having to be the one in the wrong when a relationship falls apart. Eventually he’d get bored, and Sentinel knew exactly what buttons to push to end up with the sharp edge of a knife pressed up against his throat. He could play victim as he adoringly vivisected them, revelling in the truths he found buried deep in bloody tissue and the sulci of their grey matter. That was love. And wasn’t he so compassionate? Unconditionally loving the men who’d tried to extinguish his life…
He’d gotten distracted again. Strade was staring at him expectantly, so he must have replied, but the words themselves had been long lost beneath swirling thoughts. Was his mind this difficult to manage back when he was still human? Or was the pain from his healing wounds dulling his intellect? Sentinel turned his attention back to the specimen on his table, who seemed to be in enough shock to keep her mouth shut, lost in waves of surprisingly delicate sobs. Good. His eyes wandered from her face to her torso, drifting across the vermillion chasm of parted flesh, and suddenly he was completely consumed by his own bloodthirsty fascination all over again. He let out a soft sigh, gloved fingers slipping into the wound parting his subject’s stomach. He stroked at her organs with an almost dreamy reverence, ignoring her muffled whimpers. The feeling of warm, living tissue moving beneath his fingers brought him an odd sort of peace. It almost felt like he was in a bubble, all the annoyances and distractions of the outside world falling away into perfect nothingness.
“So pretty… You have such beautiful organs.” He found himself mumbling absentmindedly as he carefully coaxed her small intestine from her body, handling the maze of bundled tubing with the utmost care. It squirmed in his grasp, looking for all the world like a scaleless snake. He smiled softly, running his fingers gently along the contours of the coiling flesh. "I’ve always loved intestines, you know. They’re so… willful. It’s adorable. Like they have a mind of their own.” He cooed softly, more to himself than to his unwilling subject.
“You know, if I stuffed them back in and stitched you up right now, they'd find their way home! Bodies are so clever in that way... Don't worry, I'll treat them well! I know they're homesick, but I can't bear to part with them so soon... I hope you understand." He sighed dreamily. "They're such a pretty color too... It's so tragic most people's organs never get to be seen! They're far too beautiful to be kept hidden. Of course the secrecy is part of the thrill, but still... They deserve to be admired. And I'll do exactly that! I'll bestow my adoration on every single inch of you. You'll die being loved more fully than almost anyone else in the world. Isn't that a wonderful fate?" He looked oddly giddy, his disease colored eyes far too wide, his lips parted in a lovesick smile, and his cheeks dusted with an almost innocent flush of pink. Like the symptoms of a crush rather than the stains of his obsession. There was almost no trace of the impartial scientist he masqueraded as remaining.
“Go to hell, you fucking psycho!” The words burst through Sentinel’s little bubble of calm like an ice pick through his skull. He flinched at the sudden noise, eyes squeezing shut and hands tensing around the soft intestinal flesh. A sharp flash of shame marred his face as his patient let out a pained groan at the increase in pressure.
“Ah, sorry!” He whispered reflexively, relaxing his grip, before stroking the crushed sections of organ in a silent apology. He then straightened slightly, the guilt staining his face turning to something more reproachful. “I told you not to yell! I’m trying my best to be gentle with you. Just please let me! Don’t fight me on this, I only want what’s best for you here.” He spoke softly, yet his tone was insistent. Surprisingly genuine too. Despite everything he did, it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to make her suffer. Everything he did was out of pure, genuine curiosity.
Or it would be, if not for how Strade’s large golden eyes hadn’t left Sentinel’s face for even a moment. They were fixed on him with an intensity that resembled hunger. He looked almost feverish with desire, face reddened and sweat beading at his brow. He was panting slightly, his plump lips parted in a way that made blood rush to Sentinel’s cock. He couldn’t stop the shiver that crawled up his spine, a conditioned response to Strade’s arousal. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was excitement. Sentinel didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t help but wonder if Strade was hard yet. Wondered if he was doing a good job. Putting on a good show. Sentinel may have sworn the Hippocratic Oath, but his word- his dignity- meant nothing compared to Strade’s approval. He belonged to Strade, had since the very moment he first laid eyes on him and he was perfectly content to be nothing but a mindless tool in Strade’s beautifully callused hands. Sentinel’s self worth was something fragile, so easily melted under his lustful gaze. If Strade was capable of love, Sentinel would trade anything for his. Even if it meant letting the killer break him beyond repair.
“Tsk! Daydreaming again~? You’re a bit of an unprofessional surgeon, aren’t you Liebchen?”
Strade’s teasing voice snapped Sentinel jarringly out of his lust filled haze. “Wh-what? No! I’m not. It’s just that… when you’re looking at me like that I can’t- I can’t think properly.” The words spilled from his mouth in a hasty defense, not quite processed. It was mindnumbingly cheesy and barely articulate. He let out a miserable little groan at his own awkward wording.
At least Strade seemed charmed. “Well why didn’t you say so!” He gave Sentinel’s hair an affectionate little ruffle before making his way to the opposite side of the workbench to eye the subject from over Sentinel’s shoulder. “How about I stay here instead? Less awkward staring, hm?”
Strade stayed far enough away for Sentinel to just barely feel his body heat, simultaneously too close and not close enough. On one end, he was consumed by the overwhelming need to feel skin against skin, to be caught up in Strade’s arms and never leave. On the other, he was overcome with a deep primordial terror. The kind you get when you know you’re being followed, no- hunted. Some base, animalistic part of Sentinel's brain screamed at him to run. “Ah- thank you…” He swallowed, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. He couldn’t shake the feeling of something being horribly wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, as his skin crawled. Strade was being far too accommodating, and it was setting off alarm bells in the back of his skull. His captor usually delighted in Sentinel’s discomfort. Strade folding so easily meant that he was planning something worse, and Sentinel didn’t know if he could bring himself to be more terrified at the thought than he was turned on.
“No problem, buddy!” Strade’s cheery grin shone through his words without Sentinel even needing to see it. Still, what he didn’t anticipate was the finger running softly up his spine, possessively stroking the ridges in a way that made Sentinel let out a soft gasp, shivering at the contact. “Ah~ Still so jumpy! Adorable!” Sentinel flinched as strong hands slammed down on either side of him, pinning him between the table and Strade’s body. He hadn’t been planning to run, but now that his exits had been cut off it was all he could think of.
Of course Strade took the opportunity to step closer, the soft bulge of his belly finally slotting perfectly into the curve of Sentinel’s spine. The warmth of Strade’s body pressed against his made Sentinel forget why he ever wanted to flee in the first place. Then another step. He couldn’t hold back a small whimper as a significantly harder bulge pressed insistantly against his ass. “Strade…? You seem a bit- um… excited? Should we postpone the rest of the dissection?” He’d been looking forward to this, but he certainly wasn’t going to pass up the chance for another torture session with Strade. He’d been through enough that he probably would have died without his own medical intervention, but he couldn’t care less. He wanted more. Wanted Strade. Craved him so badly that it hurt more than any torture he could possibly inflict.
“And why would we do that, Liebling? You’ve barely gotten started!” Strade’s voice was still teasing, but there was a breathless quality to it as well that made Sentinel’s heart flutter like a caged bird. He probably should be worried, Sentinel knew full well Strade didn’t have the self control to sit through the rest of the dissection without getting his rocks off. Still, he was too high on fear and lust to care about much of anything right now.
Strade didn’t wait for a response before forcing Sentinel’s jaw apart and shoving two fingers roughly down his throat. He gagged, saliva flooding mouth as he tasted blood and grease in the back of his mouth, a flavor so distinctly Strade, he couldn’t help but savor it. Still, his body seemed to instinctively fight the sudden intrusion all the same. He doubled over as his throat made a frankly pathetic attempt to purge Strade’s meaty fingers, completely failing to deter their relentless exploratory violation of fragile inner flesh. The movement only caused his twitching body to press closer against Strade’s growing erection, and Sentinel had to fight desperately not to drool into the patient’s gaping stomach cavity.
Strade’s fingers found Sentinel’s hip as he thrusted closer, dug deeper to crush half healed capillaries as bruises layered upon bruises. He painted Sentinel’s skin in shades of green and red and deep purple as he forced his affection deep inside delicate layers of flesh. When Strade finally withdrew, Sentinel was left gasping, quivering, and desperately needing more. He tried to reply, tried to say anything at all, but all that came out was a violent, hacking cough that sent saliva spilling down his front, right into- “Fuck!” He couldn't help but swear as he gazed shakily into the perfect crimson display he’s so carelessly soiled with his spittle. “No. No no no nonono-” His voice came out as a strained whisper as he attempted in vain to sterilize the gaping wound.
He knew it was hopeless, knew he shouldn't even bother trying, but he couldn't help himself. His eyes stung with frustrated tears. He'd tried so hard to keep everything perfect, to show off all his best parts to Strade, and all he was left with was the sharp pain of failure. “I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry…” He didn't know whether he was talking to the patient or Strade anymore, but the words fell out of his mouth on instinct. As if they could help. As if they'd do anything at all. His subject couldn’t even respond anymore. Strade must have gagged her again while he was distracted, and Sentinel knew he should probably be grateful, but right now the gesture felt less like an act of kindness, and more like a form of isolation. A way for Strade to have Sentinel all to himself.
“Pick up the scalpel, Käferchen~” Strade's voice was playful, as his fingers- the clean ones- toyed with the waistband of Sentinel’s boxers.
Sentinel obeyed without thinking, without processing how much of a terrible idea this all was. He couldn't even remember putting it down, but he must have, because as soon as he had it again he could feel his racing heart begin to slow. As long as he had it with him, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he was in control. Or at least he could pretend to be.
“Hearing you talk about her intestines earlier… Well that was really something! Every time I think I’ve gotten you figured out, you find a way to show off a whole new side of yourself! Aahhh… You sure know how to get me excited!” Strade’s voice had a breathy quality to it as he pulled the waistband down, exposing Sentinel’s ass to the cold basement air. “I need to see more. So show me! Take me on a tour of all your favorite parts. You want to impress me, don’t you?” He crooned softly, his voice lowering, taking on a seductive depth that made Sentinel’s heart skip a beat. Sentinel shivered as Strade spread him open, lubricated fingers tracing teasing circles around his hole.
“Of course I d-” Sentinel’s response was cut off by a startled yelp as one of Strade’s thick fingers slammed into him. Just one. But why? Why was Strade bothering to work him open? He’d torn Sentinel open enough times that he hardly needed to. When things didn’t fit, Strade made them fit. And Strade hardly seemed to care about anyone’s pleasure but his own. So why- Sentinel’s train of thought came to a crashing halt as Strade’s finger, which had been eagerly probing Sentinel’s insides, brushed up against his prostate. He gasped like he’d been struck, the sound soon morphing into a choked moan as another finger slid into him. “But how am I- nngh- How am I supposed to perform a dissection when you’re- aaah- When you’re finger fucking me!?”
Strade just laughed, scissoring his fingers in a way that left Sentinel seeing stars. “I’m sure you’ll manage! If you’re as good a surgeon as you claim, it’ll be no problem!”
There wasn’t any point in arguing. He couldn’t deny it, some horribly perverse part of him was loving this. Sure it was unsanitary and humiliating and horribly unprofessional, but how could he complain when it felt this good? He could feel Strade’s breath, warm and humid as he panted against Sentinel’s neck. Could feel his belly pressed into his spine, sweat pooling between their conjoined bodies. Strade seemed to be all around him, melting against his quivering form and holding him tight. He groaned softly, returning his attention to the incision. He could hardly concentrate, dizzy with the intoxicating smell of blood, the gaping mouth of his patient’s bloody insides ready to devour him whole. But he couldn’t lose himself in it quite yet. Not before the vivisection was complete. “Liver. Liver first…”
It was far from easy to remove the patient’s liver. Sure, it was painfully atrophied, the result of years of alcoholism, hardly worth saving. But Sentinel refused to impart any more damage than necessary. Strade’s movements were predictable enough, but it was still nearly impossible for Sentinel to achieve any sort of stability as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. Any stability that his scalpel had lended him was being systematically fucked into oblivion, leaving him a quivering mess. Every time he tried to steady himself, he found his body clenching distractingly around Strade’s fingers in a way that seemed to make both of them breathless.
“It’s- It’s almost pitiful isn’t it…? All shriveled and- aaah~! Abused…” Sentinel couldn’t keep the needy whine out of his voice as Strade’s fingers twisted deeper, rough calluses scraping distractingly against sensitive skin. “Still so pretty though… Mmph! Fuck. Strade, please… I need you more than anything, fuck me, make me yours, just please just ruin me!” He couldn’t help but devolve into senseless pleading as Strade’s ruthless fingers once again found his prostate. Sentinel could barely stop himself from dropping the organ, let alone concentrate on holding back the tears pricking up in his eyes.
“No, no Käferchen… We can’t do that!” Strade's tone was shockingly sincere as always, containing just enough desperation to make Sentinel's cock twitch, warm precum dripping from his tip to the sterile basement floor. “You’ve barely barely gotten started! And if I fuck you now, you’ll never finish!” The way Strade’s hand left his ass, combined with the breathy quality of his voice gave Sentinel the distinct impression that Strade was palming himself through his cargo pants. Which wasn’t any fair at all, considering Sentinel’s own hands were still very much preoccupied with the subject.
“... Nngh~ S-speak for yourself… If you’re not careful I’ll f-finish right now.” He couldn’t help but be painfully aware of how the tremor in his voice rendered the intended sarcastic bite utterly toothless. He was hardly in any position to argue, bent over his own operating table, spread open, violated, and begging for more.
Strade didn’t dignify him with a response, only dug his nails in, clawing bloody marks deep inside Sentinel’s trembling body. Which either meant he was too aroused or too annoyed to dignify the comment with a response. Possibly both. Regardless of his intent, the sudden flash of pain made Sentinel let out a desperate whine, squirming as he instinctively chased the sensation. He needed the pain, needed it to hurt- Needed Strade.
He couldn’t settle for livers or kidneys anymore. No, he was too far along. He needed to feel life pulsating under his fingers. The persistent throbbing of the heart, the strained little gasps as the lungs fought for air. He pawed messily at the ribcage, tears in his eyes, as if hoping the warm, living bones might take mercy on him. It was futile, of course. He’d been planning to use clamps to slowly coax the bones apart, revealing his wonderful prize underneath. But he couldn’t wait anymore, he needed-
Sentinel’s bloody fingers found the handle of the saw, fighting the incessant trembling of his hands as he positioned it flush against the sternum. He paused, eyes wide, heart hammering. He shouldn’t be doing this. It felt horribly, undeniably wrong. Some fundamental part of Sentinel’s brain was screaming at him to stop.This was nothing close to a proper vivisection. It was a horrible perversion of the cold precise science that Sentinel worshipped. Something twisted deep inside him, which might have either been some twisted revulsion, warped to the point of pure fetishization, or the addictive invasion of Strade’s fingers. He couldn’t tell anymore, his brain was full of a warm lustful fog that made everything feel incredible.
Strade made a low sound in the back of his throat, something that could have been a growl and could have been a chuckle, but made Sentinel’s heart skip a beat either way. “Come on, Käferchen… Don’t be such a tease!” Sentinel bit his lip, fingers tensing around the handle of the saw. It would be absolutely reprehensible to mangle a beautifully complex and immaculate body just for the purpose of sexual satisfaction. He was better than that. He was-
… Letting out a downright filthy moan as thick, powerful fingers found his cock, roughly stroking at the raw, oversensitive flesh. Sentinel’s entire body spasmed with pleasure, the cruel teeth of the saw finally biting into pristine white bone. He couldn’t stop himself anymore. He jerked the saw back and forth with increasing desperation, rutting greedily into Strade’s hand with each stroke. “I’m- aah~! S-sorry, so so sorry- I don’t do this, I don’t- ngh~ cut through bones, but you have to understand, I can’t help myself right now! I- I need this. I need this more than anything, please…” He could barely squeeze the words out between gasps and moans. Tears ran down his face, but they hardly seemed remorseful. No, his expression was one of pure ecstasy.
“That’s a good boy! Keep going…” Sentinel let out a pitiful whine as he felt Strade’s fingers abandon their ruthless assault on his ass, to instead loosely intertwine with his hand. The one holding the saw. Not pulling it, nor forcing any movement, just resting there. Keeping it steady as thrust after thrust sent the blade slicing deeper into the raw, bloody center of the ribs. The horrible grating sound of metal on bone was nearly inaudible beneath Sentinel’s panting breaths and choked moans. By now his rutting had picked up speed, as he desperately chased his pleasure. It was reckless. Sloppy and mindless, the exact sort of attitude towards bodies that Sentinel despised. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. All that mattered right now was heat and friction and the overwhelming, electric pleasure that coursed through his veins.
When Sentinel came it was with Strade’s name on his lips and the intoxicating scent of blood filling his lungs. It was all he could do not to collapse into the open chest of his patient. He felt high on the depravity of it all. He was horribly dizzy, and the world seemed to have turned a bright, arterial shade of red. He swayed slightly as he tried to collect himself. The smell of blood was overwhelming now, all consuming. There was far too much. Why? Bones bled when cut, he had anticipated that, but this wasn’t the deep, oozing red produced by bone marrow. No, it was far too vivid, far too fresh, far too much. It had completely flooded the cavity he’d opened, and had begun to spill to the basement floor with a horrible little patter. There was only one explanation, but the thought of it was too horrific to even consider. He’d cut into the heart.
He instantly wrenched the saw from the wound, batting Strade’s hand away as he attempted to pinch the severed bits of muscle closed again. It was futile. Liquid life spurted from between his fingers, splattering him in a hot vermillion shower. It didn’t seem real. People didn’t die on Sentinel’s operating table, not unless he wanted them to. It was his special place, a space where he was always in control. He was the arbiter of life and death, and dealt out both in equal measure. It was always swift and clean and neat. Not like this. Never like this.
But it wasn’t too late, he could fix things! “Strade, get the clamp. Now!” Sentinel couldn’t disguise the tremor in his voice. His tone wasn’t just urgent, it was frantic. For the first time since he’d orchestrated his own kidnapping, Sentinel was absolutely terrified.
Strade’s hand languidly continued to stroke at his flaccid cock. The touch- which just a few seconds ago Sentinel could have sworn he would die without, was quickly becoming distractingly overstimulating.The sensation was beginning to border on pain. Strade let out a low chuckle. “So bossy! You know Liebe, when asking someone for a favor, it’s good practice to be polite! Would it really kill you to say ‘please’? Earlier you sounded like you were begging for your life! Why the change in tone?”
Sentinel couldn’t help the snarl that ripped its way out of his throat. “Oh fuck off! Is it really so hard to be helpful for once? And stop- Stop touching me!” He bucked and squirmed, fighting to escape from Strade’s grasp. All the motion accomplished was another rush of blood leaking between his fingertips, and Strade’s hold on him tightening. Sentinel whined, a desperate animalistic sound, like a creature caught in a hunter’s trap. “Aahhh- Fuck! Strade- Strade please! She’s dying, and I’m the only one who can save her! Just please, get the fucking clamp before it’s too late!”
“Hmmm…” Strade drew out the sound for several seconds too long, seeming to luxuriate in Sentinel’s growing panic. “Well… I could help, but why should I? It all seems a bit… One sided, doesn’t it?” His ordinarily quick excitable way of speaking had slowed to a leisurely drawl. His tone had an artificial apprehension to it that failed to mask the sadistic delight beneath.
“One sided?” Sentinel’s voice was a strained hiss. His eyes darted around the table, looking for anything that could possibly stop the bleeding. It was hard to think through the cloying stench of iron and ache of overstimulation. Still, his spare hand soon found the blowtorch. If Strade wasn’t going to help, he’d have to save his patient on his own.
“I’ve been spoiling you too much, Käferchen! It wasn’t easy to find you a lab rat on such short notice, you know. And you had so many specifications! I barely had any time to enjoy her before you started slicing her open.” Sentinel could hear the pout in Strade’s voice without even having to look. He didn’t bother responding, all his attention dedicated towards trying frantically to light the blowtorch one handed. “I took good care of that little problem you had between your legs. I even let you cum! But it looks like all that excitement was too much for my precious Haustier… You got too worked up and broke your new toy! And now you’ve come crying to me for help…”
“...I’m not- ah!” Sentinel let out a small gasp as the blowtorch finally flickered to life. He quickly set about sealing the wound shut. The flames lapped at his fingers, blistering them, but he barely felt it. Every breath he took was overwhelmed with the stench of burning meat. By now the patient’s heart had come to a complete stop, but she wasn’t dead yet! Sentinel could still resuscitate her, he had a chance!
“Well I’m excited too! And I deserve a little spoiling as well, don’t you think?”
Something about those words made Sentinel’s stomach twist, but didn’t even have a chance to respond before he was slammed face first into the gaping chest wound of his specimen. He took an involuntary gasping breath, only to find himself choking as he inhaled rapidly cooling blood. It hit the back of his throat with a jarring coppery taste, only to be immediately spat out again in horrible hacking coughs that made his whole body spasm. It took all the willpower he had left to resist the urge to vomit.
Sentinel was only vaguely aware of Strade’s hands- one on the back of his neck, one on his hip. The pressure at his ass demanded his attention far more insistantly, the familiar burn as Strade’s thick cock bullied its way inside. He should be enjoying this right now. This was what he wanted, right? But right now all Sentinel could think about was his precious patient’s wounds being contaminated. He was supposed to be better than this. He was a good doctor, he knew he was. He was always in control, always perfect, always-
Strade thrust into him, and his train of thought was violently derailed in an inferno of sensations. It was all too much. His fingers clawed at raw organ meat, eyes leaking tears, as Strade ravaged his limp body. He was too overwhelmed to even fight back, slumped over his subject’s dead body like a ragdoll, reduced to an object for Strade to rut into. It would be so easy to just give up. To stop fighting it and just let himself be used. He liked being used, especially by men like Strade. But he couldn’t just be Strade’s fuckhole right now, because that dead body didn’t have to stay dead, and Sentinel was its only hope of coming back to life.
“Strade…” Sentinel’s voice came out in a weak rasp. It was barely audible over Strade’s eagerly panting breaths and giddy moans. “Fuck- Strade, stop!” This time his voice was slightly stronger. Still strained and hoarse, but loud enough to catch Strade’s attention. He slowed his brutal pace slightly, still forcing Sentinel to feel every agonizingly perfect inch of him, but allowing some slivers of space in Sentinel’s fucked out mind for actual thought.
“Hmmm?” His voice curled in warm self-satisfaction. “What’s the matter, Liebling? Does it hurt~?” His words oozed with sadistic delight, the sentence trailing off into a throaty moan.
Hurt? Sentinel couldn’t tell for the life of him whether it was pain or pleasure coursing through his body right now. All he knew was that he needed it to stop. “Please… Please Strade, you need to let me save her! Nngh- She’s- She’s not dead. Brain death isn’t for another ten minutes, just please-”
Strade’s thrusts seemed to stutter slightly, the ruthless pace thrown off by a half second’s pause. He was caught off guard! Good, that meant that Sentinel still had a chance-
“Ohhh Käferchen… I never expected you of all people to have a soft side!” His words had a breathy quality to them, and a chuckle hidden within them that never quite materialized. “Ten minutes, hm? Well I'm not sure I can cum that fast! You'll have to do something really special if you want to save her in time~!"
“No!” The word ripped out of Sentinel’s throat on its own accord, something raw and hopeless. He knew it was useless, knew it would only encourage Strade, but he couldn’t help himself. He was terrified. Not the seductive horror that Strade had adoringly carved into him, but a panic that shot ice through his veins. “Stop it! Get off of me!” Strade just moaned in response, his thrusts growing harsher, more erratic.
The weight on the back of Sentinel’s neck increased, restricting his airflow as his throat was crushed against the remainder of his subject’s sternum. He gasped for air, and the room spun before Sentinel’s eyes in a kaleidoscope of reddish hues. He grasped for his scalpel, fingers wrapping around the cool comforting metal, only to freeze. He could stab Strade. It could be all over in an instant. It would take a fraction of a second, a moment’s thought but-
He wanted this, didn’t he? He’d planned everything out to fall right into Strade’s lap. And of course he knew what kind of treatment he was in for. He’d engineered this entire scenario perfectly, so there was no one here to blame but Sentinel himself. He must have wanted this, must still want this, because if he wanted Strade to stop, he would have made him stop. He wouldn’t be hesitating. His fingers wouldn’t be quivering around the handle of his scalpel. Of course he was in control. He’s been in control this whole time, because if he wasn’t- If he wasn’t in control, than this would be rape. He’d be letting himself get raped in the ass over a corpse. Which he wasn’t, obviously, because he’d wanted this all along, because Strade was just another puppet in his hands, because he was fucking Sentinel, goddamnit and no one would ever control him again!
He was abruptly yanked backwards by the hair, letting out a pained yelp. The sound was quickly swallowed by his captor’s satisfied groan as Strade came unceremoniously inside him. Sentinel swayed for just a moment, before his legs finally gave out and he collapsed to the blood soaked basement floor. It was there he discovered that he was somehow half hard again. Something about that seemed horribly wrong, but Sentinel couldn’t guess for the life of him why that might be. He should be happy, some part of him really must have liked it after all.
“Now that’s what I call something special! You outdid yourself, Käferchen!” Sentinel hazily looked up towards the source of the noise to find Strade’s face grinning back at him. He reached down to ruffle Sentinel’s hair, the affectionate gesture seeming out of place among the bloody scenery.
“I… I did?” Praise from Strade shouldn’t feel as good as it did. His smile shone with the warmth of a thousand perfect summer days, not a cloud in sight. Sentinel found himself basking in the glow.
“Of course! You’ve never screamed like that before. If I knew you could make sounds like those, I would’ve set all this up sooner!” Strade helped Sentinel to his feet, a kind gesture just as thoughtless as his cruel ones. Sentinel tried his best not to think about why his screams might have sounded different this time.
“Ah… Of course.” His voice sounded slightly strained, and he had to swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Now, now, no need to sulk! I came early, so you have plenty of time to revive our friend here before her brain dies. Think of it as a reward!”
Sentinel felt a wave of acidic shame well up in his gut. He’d nearly forgotten about his patient in the midst of his self pitying though spiral. He gritted his teeth, took her heart in his hand, and squeezed. Then relaxed his grip and squeezed again, forcing the muscle to start pumping blood once more. To transport the oxygen his specimen’s rapidly dying brain so desperately needed. Again and again and again. Sentinel wasn’t going to let her die, not without his permission. Only- “There’s not enough blood in her body. There’s nothing I can do.” His eyes were wide, and he couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice. He dropped her heart as if it had burned him. “She’s dead.” Sentinel’s voice had gone completely flat. The statement ached with its finality. He stared at his patient’s limp heart as if in a daze.
“Aw! What a shame. Well, I’m sure you’ll keep our next guest around for longer! Everyone makes mistakes, what matters is that you learn from them.”
Sentinel didn’t even look up from the corpse. “She’s dead, Strade.” He said again, as if repeating his statement would somehow make it make sense.
“Mhm! That’s what happens when you kill someone, Liebling!” His voice was sickeningly jovial. “Now why don’t you get yourself cleaned up? Ren will be finished cooking soon, and I won’t have you eating dinner in the closet again!” With that, Strade disappeared back up the basement steps, humming a happy little tune to himself as he went.
Sentinel didn’t respond, didn’t follow in Strade’s wake, just continued to stare blankly at the cooling corpse. The sight felt wrong in a way Sentinel didn’t have the words for. She was far from the first person he’d watched meet their end in this basement. He’d spend hundreds of hours pouring over every single one of Strade’s infamous snuff streams. Far from the first person he’d killed with his own hands. That tally nearly doubled Strade’s. But this was different. She was Sentinel’s patient. He had a responsibility to her, and he’d failed. Her death was something unforgivable, an act of disgusting incompetence.
He spent nearly an hour washing himself under scalding hot water before he finally gave up. The blood just wouldn’t go away. The harder he scrubbed, the more wounds he opened up, and the more of himself he lost down the drain. If only he could wash it all away, could disinfect away his sins. For the first time in a century, Sentinel found himself longing for a fresh set of skin.