The room was so empty and uninviting that it seemed to drop a few degrees just from how abandoned it felt. There were basic grey sheets on the bed, a desk with all of it's papers and pens carefully locked away in the drawers where they belonged rather than resting on top of it. A simple bookshelf was filled end to end with heavy worded texts documenting rare accounts of illnesses that ranged from the mundane to those so rare that they had yet to earn a name. Only the bottom shelf held any sort of variance or color to it. This low shelf, one that most would ignore and wouldn't be easily viewable when standing in the room, contained mostly paperbacks with curiously suggestive titles. Most of the bindings were black with some sort of unique lettering, their looping quality teasingly hinting at the sensual nature of their content.

It was to this shelf that Kabuto turned his attention to. The day was winding to a close, Orochimaru having dismissed him from the labs, stating that they both needed rest. The door was closed and locked. Kabuto's bare feet rested on the cold wooden floor as he knelt, looking over the well worn bindings that resided on the most hidden of his shelves. This particular collection had taken him just as long to collect as the medicinal texts that rested above them, being of a very specific sub-genre of an already taboo subject. Erotica in and of itself did little for Kabuto. It took something a bit darker to catch his eye, something...clinical.

He pulled one from near the corner, one that was always a stable of his recreational time. He turned on the lamp that rested on the desk, casting light indirectly around the room before shutting off the overhead. Moving to the bed, he set the book down and began to undress. He removed each piece of clothing individually, carefully setting them in the corner to be taken to the laundry in the morning. He left on only his shirt, preferring to sleep with it on to keep his chest and stomach warm, especially before picking up one of those books. He pulled his hair free of it's ponytail, letting the frayed mess that it contained fan itself around his neck and shoulders. If it didn't irritate the back of his head, he would have slept with his hair tied back, not liking how it felt as it brushed and ticked the soft flesh it touched.

Without moving the covers, Kabuto picked up the book and laid down on the bed, his body situated so that his shoulder and head were raised by the pillow and headboard, a good position for reading while laying down, a position he was so used to, his body automatically positioned itself there when coming to bed. From here, he was able to flip to one of the many dog-eared pages that marked the only points in the book he cared about. He couldn't be bothered getting to know whatever shallow, half-baked characters the author invented nor the convoluted plot that would inevitable lead to those marked pages. The writers and readers both knew what it was they were looking for, and so those were the parts that he concerned himself with.

Kabuto's poison of choice was something he was all too familiar with. He wasn't excited by two bodies acting on carnal desire. No, he wasn't some lower ape that could manage to find art in something so instinctive. What excited him, what made his heart race and fingertips twitch with barely restrained want was nothing less than cold steel. His setting of choice, a sterile OR with a well restrained subject. His tools of choice were not the common silicone based toys that every run of the mill porno featured, but a neatly arranged array of scalpels, forceps, and spreaders, each sterilized to a shining finish. Latex was not something worn on the genitals, but worn as gloves. These medical room fantasies of his were always carefully elaborate, structured, and detailed as anything he thought on was. They would play out with him knowing exactly what route to take from start to finish, each move as planned as an operation he had spent weeks preparing for.

His vast medical knowledge made these fantasies exquisite, but there was a downside as well. It seemed that anyone who tried to write out fantasies of a similar nature had no background in medicine at all. The realism was too often ruined for him whenever the author would include something absurd or guessed at. The terminology would be wrong, the tools used would be improper, and that would be the end of it. That was why his collection was so rare. These texts were tried and true, ones that kept the reality of it close enough that he could lose himself in the thoughts of the light dazzling off of the instruments as the patients observed with wide eyes, first in fear, then ecstasy. The one he read from now in particular was divine in its realism, noting even the dosage of each drug administered to properly incapacitate the patient.

He read over one of the shorter instances, his eyes slowly reading the passage, carefully absorbing each word and forming an image in mind to match. A hand slid down his body, letting his fingertips trace along his stomach and hips, teasing himself with their cool touch before taking hold of himself. Reading was only ever preparation for him, the touching he did only there to stimulate an erection, not proceed towards climax, and as such seemed lazy and half hearted. The text was used to invoke his mind, getting it to create vividly the images on the page before tasking it with creating images purely from his own thoughts and scraps of memory.

As the scene drew to an end, he closed the book, setting it on the far side of the bed from where he lay. Now that his body and mind was warmed up, he could proceed. He slouched down a bit, letting his head rest more on the pillow, his eyes falling shut, the hand that gripped himself still repeating the same slow movement of his wrist. He could now open his mind to his own personal stock of fantasies and stir into them his own personal fetish.

His thoughts turned almost immediately to his personal lab where most of his day was spent when dealing with live patients. It was no longer a generic lab, but one he was familiar with. He knew what lived on each of the shelves, knew exactly how worn each notch on the leather restraints was, letting him estimate the average size of the patients he worked on, at least the ones that struggled. His personal cart was loaded with tools that he knew intimately. The curve of each of those tools was so familiar he could almost feel them between his fingers just at the thought. They were well broken in, but maintained in top condition, each blade keeping a cutting edge sharp enough to split hairs.

Before him on the gurney he had often worked at was the item of his obsession, the link in the fantasy that transcended just a medical fetish. He thought of the body that he was so drawn to, the pale flesh raised to goosebumps from the cold of the gurney. The nude body a canvas on which he was allowed to work. This time, this fantasy would have his eyes closed, unconscious and unaware. He spent what seemed hours on recalling the exact details of the body he so longed for, detailing every shadow cast by muscles and ligaments anchoring to bone, covered with ivory flesh. He recalled the gentle yet defined curve of bone that protruded from his wrists, ankles, and when lying on his back, pelvic bones. He noted how his waist curved inwards, accentuating his thinness and contrasted by outward curve of his hips.

Kabuto, in this situation, had an unlimited amount of time to do as he pleased, and as such, picked his favorite tool first. The scalpel gleamed as he looked it over, catching his own reflection in the blade before moving it towards the flesh that he knew would part so easily. His first cut was a vertical cut that split the dermis, revealing the sinistral exterior oblique. The flesh parted easily, splitting with a smooth resistance that was unique to itself. The blood began to flow, thick and glistening. It enthralled his mind, his eyes locked on each shift in the flow, on each rivulet that ran down to the curve of his back, pooling on the steel beneath. He made a cut to mach on the dexterous side, watching with the same interest as the skin parted and bled.

His hand continued to move, no longer the lazy motion of preparation, but of someone seeking an end for themselves. His back was arched, the muscles in his shoulders tense. His head was now pressed tight against the pillow, teeth clenched, breath escaping in shuddering exhales as he fought to not make a sound. He was easy this time, not having to delve too far into the fantasy before his end came about. His toes curled, knees bending slightly as he betrayed himself, making a stifled moan through his clenched teeth. Every fiver of himself seemed to constrict, curling himself inward a bit before completely relaxing, soaking in the rush of endorphins that flooded his system. It came over him in a wave that always reminded him of addiction, the fix that a junkie needs to keep themselves stable, and he knew that the two sensations were one and the same on many different levels.

Finally regaining his composure, he took the paperback, returning it to the bottom shelf in its assigned spot. He pulled open one of his desk drawers and retrieved a tissue from it, cleaning any and all evidence of his actions from his body and making sure that none remained on his blanket either before tossing the used tissue in the wastebasket under the desk, hidden away from any prying eyes. Pulling away the blanket now, he slid into his bed, getting comfortable before riding the calming wave of orgasm into a black sleep, his round frame glasses still perched on his nose, long forgotten about in his tangled desires.