Things can get so boring so easily. There's only so much chaos a man can sow before it loses its appeal, and Scratch hates when these quiet down-time periods come swinging in. He likes quiet but he doesn't like to be still. That's what he has dear Tom Zane for. Zane might be the only other person that knows how to have some semblance of fun, mostly because Zane is crazy. Scratch likes that. Sometimes he doesn't like it, but he likes it more often than he doesn't.
So here he is, in the dimly lit hotel room, some record playing in the background. His jacket's been abandoned somewhere, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened as he shimmies around to the music. There's a drink in his hand that he takes a sip of in the middle of his own personal dance party.
"If I have to listen to this song again, I'm breaking it."
"You're dancing to it," he points out with a languid, pleased cat-like smile on his face. In contrast to Scratch's shimmies, Thomas Zane is on the floor with his back to a hotel couch, a hookah handle in his hand. It's just leather pants and a white shirt that's entirely open, hair as wild as his imagination.
They're in his hotel room, the dingy, rain soaked New York streets Alan has placed to navigate the Dark Place casting strange shadows along the dimly lit walls. Zane watches those hips with admiration.
"The music is rudimentary but the lyrics--Jim Morrison has an eye for the spoken word. Come sit, handsome."
"And I don't want to dance to it again," he says, a bit of firmness in his voice. He's tired of The Doors.
Another sip of his drink and Scratch makes his way over to the poet-turned-filmmaker, doing a sort of step-touch along the way.
"Why don't we ever listen to anything a little more pa-cha-cha-ah?"
The vocal percussions are emphasized with some shoulder movements, then he's himself on the floor, stretching out horizontally so his head can rest in Zane's lap.
"This is my corner of the sky," he reminds simply, and the moment Scratches head goes to his lap Zane is running long fingers along the other's scalp, carding his fingers through strands.
He doesn't actually care much about what's playing. He'd change it if Scratch turned frightful. Now, though, Scratch is in a good mood and that means so is Zane. The hash in his system and the near constant stream of negronis don't help with that, but they do help with Thomas's creative cycle.
That's what truly matters.
"If you want to party, though, then we can certainly party." He takes a drag off of the hookah pipe, leans all the way back as he holds it, eyes slipping closed. He exhales, and when he does his whole body seems to rise and then fall towards Scratch in an alarmingly elegant, if erratic way. He offers the pipe to Scratch.
"I was trying to but you wouldn't come dance with me."
Honestly, Scratch doesn't care. If he wanted to party then they'd be partying, because Tom's right. All he has to do is say the word and there's no way it wouldn't happen. But the most constant thing about Scratch is that he prefers a degree of quietness, and right now this is perfect.
Even if he's heard this damn record too many times.
He keeps his eyes fixed on Zane's face as his lips wrap around the pipe. It's not his style much, either, but the other's right. He's in a good mood in the relatively serenity of the moment. He lets the smoke draw into him and then exhales, watching it curl up around Zane's features and through his manic curls.
He would. But currently, lazing about with his head full of fog, jostling the chemicals in there for some inspiration, Thomas Zane is simply too damn high.
“In the meadow, slick with rain The lion sits, anticipating. Woe for those untowards ---Its claws are gleaming.”
He smiles, looking down at Scratch, still running his hands through his hair.
Scratch bristles a little. He's convinced that Zane completely forgot he was even there for a moment, even with his head in his damn lap and those talented fingers carding through his hair.
He doesn't like being overlooked, least of all when he's right there.
Reaching up, Scratch curls a hand around the back of Zane's neck. It's too firm, too much pressure to be particularly affectionate, as he pulls the other man's face down close to his.
"Transcendental knowledge, of course!" Thomas is crowing with glee that Scratch has even asked, eyes wide, alight with the sparks of creative madness. He doesn't mind that his neck is being scruffed--if anything, that spurs him on, throwing his hands wide, flinging them about. Scratch still has a hold of his neck, their faces inches apart, and Zane is thrumming with the feeling of being alive.
"And while the labyrinth winds and loops and spirals, the egg will form an island. On a lake. Don't you see?"
Zane's voice lowers in a whisper, his hands moving to cup the other's face in his lap. It's soft, gentle, despite the firm grip on him. Dualism at it's finest.
"Completely covering woe, smothering it, burying it. Don't you see?"
Scratch rolls his eyes so hard that it's a miracle they stay in his head at all.
"Lake this, lake that, enough with the overdone lake motifs."
It's not cool. It was never cool, and if he has to hear Zane or Alan mention lakes one more time he's going to barf and then he's going to lose his temper.
His fingers dig in a little more to Zane's neck. It'll probably leave a mark. He hopes it'll leave a mark. The other man's so out of it that he probably won't even notice.
"I'm the lion, Tom. And this?" He motions to the hotel room, but he means the Dark Place as a whole. "This is my savanna. Don't forget that."
Scratch doesn't see. Scratch doesn't get it. But the bruises are fun, and his insistence that he's right makes him achingly attractive. It's confidence. It's will. It's all the things his creation is hiding from.
Scratch doesn't write. Can't write. That's the only problem. Zane can't guide him like he did with Alan. Scratch wouldn't be a very good person to guide, anyway. And Zane? Zane is free, but he has to get out, has to move, even if this is lovely now. He can feel himself sinking.
"Oh, of course," he placates he other, eyes still wide with manic energy, unable to stop his grin. He leans down, pulling the other into a hard and fervent kiss.
He knows Zane's just saying it. He's not an idiot, he's had enough people (unsuccessfully) try to soothe him that he can recognize the tone. And, really, Zane should feel flattered he's here. Scratch can go anywhere he wants, he could slip his way out of here, leave them all behind to have a night of havoc. And once the dark presence can come to full fruition, Tom Zane will be left sinking in the blackness.
But right now? Right now, Scratch chooses to be here, and he doesn't think Zane appreciates it as much as he should.
At least Zane does something right when he pulls Scratch into a frenzied sort of kiss. His fingers move, slipping up to tangle up in the other's curls, holding him there.
There it is. Zane is not Scratches equal--they're too different, too adverse, and no, no, no, Scratch's foil belongs to Alan--but they are on somewhat equal footing now, like this, with kisses and touches and parties. Drugs and alcohol and fun is something they can and always will agree on.
Both of them, free and not.
The hand moves to his curls, and even with the devouring kiss he's instigated can't stop the grin on his face as his hands move to Scratch's shoulders, dipping into that half-open shirt, touching the other's chest with fevered reverence.
He could write a sonnet. He could write ten sonnets. He could make a film. He could--
Zane's lips part, eyes widening to a ridiculous degree.
He could make a film. A different one. Not Nightless Night, but something else. Just for him. The hand on the other's bare chest stills as Zane's eyes dart to and fro.
"I've just thought of something beautiful," he says. As beautiful as the bruises on the back of his neck that will heal within a day.
Zane's in one of Those Moods, apparently, attention span flitting back and forth. Scratch has settled down in regards to his annoyance at not being the centre of attention, because a part of him recognizes that he's still the subject of this mind-shift.
He should fear Mr. Scratch. He does, sometimes. Thomas Zane, despite being free in the utmost sense, is lacking one little thing: a way out. Reality needs to be rewritten. He's created Alan, guided Alan, but this...
Things are complicated now. And yet, he feels illuminated. It's the hookah, it's eyes on him, it's the temporary alleviation of just him. He's not lonely, but company is always nice.
But Scratch wants another kiss and Scratch gets what he wants. Zane eyes the other, not bothering to hide the lust underneath the way his the corner of his eyes turn up when he gives a fox-like smirk.
"I could do more than that," he offers, hand on that stocky chest moving a little further, undoing some of the buttons on the other's white button-down shirt. Flighty. thinking.
Framing the other like this, studying him intently. Looking for inspiration in a dark, hollow presence.
He hums, his eyes - strikingly similar to Zane's own - going darker with the combination of desire and humourless amusement.
"You always know how to make me feel good."
It's one of the very few reasons why Scratch keeps Zane around. Not that he doesn't like to make Zane feel good, either, but his motives are more selfish than the other's. And he does enjoy having others submit themselves to him.
Which he why he doesn't move to help or assist. Scratch is perfectly content to let Zane spoil him.
He knows because Scratch is him, but not--far, far removed, not like Alan's perfect mirrored shillouette is to Scratch but instead a foggy mirror. Layers and layers and layers, like a warped carnival fun house.
But bodies, they're the same. Zane's smirk is still on his face as he takes his hands and moves them to the other's cheeks. Index fingers glide alongside Scratch's jaw, a gentle half-massage as he frames the other's face before lifting him up and sliding out.
He edits reality, warps the space like only he can: Scratch is in his lap, and then Scratch has a pile of pillows where Zane's legs would be, and the vinyl player is playing Scratch's favourite party song as Zane slides his poet's shirt off, standing in front of him, hips swaying as he grooves, shoulders pumping as he sinks to his feet with exaggerated affectation. He throws his shirt across the room.
"Anything for you, darling," his voice is a purr as many ringed fingers begin to undo Scratches belt.
Sometimes it bothers him, how Zane and Alan can alter their realities and narratives. Scratch is an extension of them, isn't he? He doesn't like that they hold a power he doesn't, but he placates himself (usually) with the knowledge he can do things they can't. He can shape the shadows and the darkness. He's strong.
Right now, though, like this, Scratch is pleased that Zane is moving things along. He rests his hands behind his head, contented with both the change in music and the way he can admire the fluidity in Zane's movements. And those fingers, God, Scratch knows just how good they are. He exhales the breath of a man overcome with want, but he waits. He won't interrupt the show.
He does, however, decide to grace the other man with a compliment.
"So pretty," Scratch murmurs. He reaches out a hand to twist a curl around his fingers. "So eager to please."
Zane visibly preens at that, nose wrinkling slightly as he smiles, satisfied that Mr. Scratch is giving him table scraps. He likes table scraps, sometimes. He likes Scratch watching him like this even more, so as he sinks down to his knees to fully open Scratch's starched and pressed shirt, he rumples it even more as he opens it.
Yes, he's attractive. And Scratch is attractive, with that same face and stubble and short, slicked back hair.
"Go on, darling," he encourages, demanding more praise as he presses lips to the middle of Scratch's chest. Thomas kisses down the other's chest, hands moving from Scratch's exposed shoulders down, index and thumb lightly pinching a nipple as he languidly, unhurriedly creeps lower.
Scratch tolerates the teasing. Zane is the only one Scratch allows to do it. When it comes to his other partners, Scratch abides only by his own wants. With Zane, though, he affords the man some leniency. It's not so much fondness as Zane being currently indispensable to him.
He grabs the hand teasing at his nipple, gripping it uncomfortably by the wrist.
"Careful, Tom," he says, his own voice matching the purr-like quality of Zane's, "I was starting to think you've been good enough to choose tonight. Was I wrong?"
Zane doesn't pause--he smiles, because this is what they do. Scratch would find Zane boring if he did exactly what he said. Zane would be a lot more frightened of Scratch if he knew the other didn't like this just as much.
The grip is uncomfortable, but Zane rather likes it.
"Tightrope walking," Zane quotes, and he moves the wrist gently towards his mouth, hair over one eye. "Would you choose a safety net that traps you?" His lips move over those knuckles, ghosting his breath against them, "And kills the thrill. Thin weave of wires slices your flesh."
He's pushing it, and he knows he is, so Tom lets his free hand undo Scratch's belt in one satisfying, practiced motion. His brows raise, looking directly into the dark presence's eyes.
"I must prefer the dark air in-between soft shadows. Hug you gently all the way to the ground."
He takes Scratch's index finger into his mouth, sucking suggestively as he begins to undo those stylish pants. The top button first, and then the zipper.
Which is to say, when it's full or occupied doing something other than talking. Sometimes he wonders if Zane ever knows what he's talking about, or if he just goes out of his way to speak in twisted riddles because it's his gimmick.
Scratch brushes his thumb along Tom's jaw, a show of (false) affection meant to signify that he's still behaving well.
"Let's play a game. You don't make any sound at all until I say you can, and I'll give you a little treat."
He'll take that affection, however fake it is--it's something, even if it's just a shadow pretending its' human. This can be fun. This can be a distraction. For him, yes, but also for Mr. Scratch.
Zane can handle him. He's not sure Alan can. Not now.
So Tom gasps--a soft, slight 'oh!' of discovery as the doppelganger instructs him. Yes, he can do that. The music is still playing, the pillows soft. There's a perfectly mixed negroni by Scratch's side, the air is still cloyingly sweet with whatever Zane had decided to smoke, and the poet himself is pulling the belt entirely free, wresting it free and leaning back (mouth off of the the other's fingers) only to casually fit the belt around his shoulders like it's some sort of wrap or scarf.
He can't speak, but he can return his attention fully onto the other's broad chest and barreled body, licking from the top of the other's briefs up to by his bellybutton. He can tease in other ways, fingers curling against pants and pulling with a sharp, twisting tug, that slightly mad smirk still firmly in place.
He didn't expect Zane to disagree, though, so he's not surprised by the complacency. He enjoys it all the same.
He especially enjoys the belt resting over Zane's shoulders. Did Zane do it on purpose? It doesn't matter. When the other man is close enough, Scratch gently loops the belt around Zane's neck, giving it a light tug to tighten it against Zane's throat. Yes, he likes that a lot.
Scratch lifts his hips enough to help Zane get his pants free, loosening the slack on the belt for the moment.
It's not so tight that he can't breathe, and even if it inevitably cuts off his air supply, Tom will love it anyway. The sharp tug gets one tiny, final sigh of pleasure mixed with a grimace as it gets a little snug.
None of this stops his hands, how he inhales greedily at the smell of Scratch's musk as he peels those briefs off. He knows Scratch enjoys his clothes, his fashion--he keeps the clothes on as much as he can because that's hot, too.
He wants to speak. It's killing him, not running this mouth, words and phrases tripping overthemselves in his mind, desperate to manifest. But Scratch says no, so instead Zane's fingers curl themselves around Scratch's half-hard cock, licking up the shaft obscenely.
Scratch exhales a sigh, a tingle of pleasure making its way through him at the feeling of fingers first then Zane's slick tongue. He drops his head back against the pillow as he curls the belt around his fist, keeping the leather taut against Zane's neck. There's going to be a band of read around the filmmaker's pale skin from it, and Scratch is going to get his mouth on every bit of it before it fades.
But that's later.
With one hand keeping hold of the belt, his other hand digs deeper into Zane's hair.
"You just love being shameless, don't you?" He gives a tug on the belt, a pre-emptive warning to remind Zane he's not allowed to talk. "Show me how much you like it."
He does. He fucking does, and he curves his back purposefully at the response to show his ass in tight leather pants. The belt is tight enough that it's snug, that it'll leave red marks, but they both know he can speak if he wants to--and he wants to, he really really does. But that's part of the game.
That little tug, the simple act of reminding him means a small, pleased moan escapes from the back of his throat as he decides that his mouth would, for once, be better used not spouting off poetry. If Scratch is showering him with his version of compliments, how is he to say no? He's in it for the art, but that doesn't mean his ego is lacking.
Thomas instead focuses on the spike of pleasure that lances through him at the situation as he moves one of his hands, placing the palm on the other's lower abdomen. The other remains holding the base of Scratch's cock as he flicks his tongue lightly over Scratch's head before taking him into his mouth, lowering himself while taking care not to move too erratically. Not with the belt looped around his neck.
His fingers flex, teasing the other's chest as he works on getting the other fully hard.
It doesn't take long for Scratch to reach full arousal. Sex is the best part about being relatively human, and he's not ashamed to admit (to himself) that Thomas Zane is his preferred partner. He wouldn't keep coming back to indulge both of them if that wasn't the case.
Maybe it's because Zane knows him. He knows exactly what to do with his tongue, his fingers, knows when to be good and when he can push Scratch's buttons just right. It'll almost be a shame when the inevitable comes to send them different ways.
Almost.
But it's that sweet little sound Zane makes, the man being as pleased to give as Scratch is to receive, that gets Scratch hard and pressing his hips up into Zane's welcoming mouth. Now that Zane's shown he understands the assignment, Scratch lets go of the belt, leaving it hanging loosely but still wrapped around Zane's pretty swan-like neck. His free hand travels down, fingers brushing Zane's back until it comes down in a smack against the leather-clad ass the man was so eager to show off.
Scratch slaps his ass and the sharp and pleasant sting causes Zane to sigh, tips of his fingers pressing lightly on that perfect stomach, smoothly hollowing out his cheeks and getting further to work.
He can't run his mouth if it's too busy servicing, and he begins to bob his head, lips wrapped around Scratch's cock, mouth hot and wet. This is what he wants--more, even, because for all Scratch is put together, control woven into him with shadowy tendrils, Zane loves when he falls apart. The folly of being human.
Zane decides that's his personal goal to see that more than once, to see Scratch like that before the night is out.
Zane gets another sharp smack, a reward for doing a good job. Scratch can feel the other's resolve to make this good. It pulls a breathless laugh out of him, which soon becomes a groan thanks to Zane's well-practiced mouth.
He lets the other man show off a bit longer before taking back control. Scratch tightens his grip on Zane's hair, using his strength as leverage to press his head down more. His other hand comes up to help hold Thomas's head still, so he can thrust his hips up at an unrelenting pace.
"Fuck -"
This could do it for him. He could keep this up, keep fucking Zane's mouth just like this, but he's feeling generous. He's in a good mood and his little pet hasn't done anything to upset him. Scratch likes to remind Zane that he likes him (as much as Scratch can truly like anyone that isn't himself). He stills his thrusts when he knows he's pushed Zane to the point of needing relief, using the fist of curls to pull Zane up for a momentarily crushing kiss.
There's signs, that laugh-turned-groan, the picking up of his breathing that has Zane ready for arguably his favourite part. Scratch coming undone. Scratch losing the control he has on himself and lying to himself to believe it's Zane he's forcing this on.
Physically, yes: but Zane craves this, loves this, breathes through his nose when he can because those strong hands are manhandling him down. Scratch's cock hits the back of his throat again and again and even as Zane relaxes it it's too much. It's primal and raw and Thomas is fully prepared to start to choke again, tiny blissful tears threatening to spill over his face when Scratch pulls him up.
Scratch kisses like he means it and Zane nearly crushes his own face into the dark doppelganger, noses bumping almost violently. It's ugly and full of want, desire in every aspect of Zane's touches. Scratch encourages him to finish but Zane isn't done.
Zane laughs instead, because he can't speak. It's a bright, mad laugh, lips red and bruised and face flushed, and there's a flash of teeth as he moves in for a second kiss. He'll stop until his harshness makes Scratch bleed or Scratch shoves him off, immediately taking his place between Scratches thighs.
Scratch hooks his index and middle fingers into the belt looped around Zane's neck, using it to pull him close and keep him there while they kiss. Maybe it's just luring Zane into a false sense of security in this cat-and-mouse game they have going. No, there weren't any explicit rules against laughing, but Scratch made the rules so he decides when they're broken or not. And he thinks Zane broke them.
With Zane settled between his thighs, it's easy for Scratch to twist them both around, landing with Zane's back against the floor and Scratch pinning him there as he straddles the man. He keeps his fingers tucked into the belt loop as he tuts his tongue.
"Oh, Tom," he says, turning his face into a mocking sort of pout, "you were doing so good. I had the best little treat for you but you just couldn't help yourself, could you? What should the loser of the game get?"
Scratch slips his fingers free, only so he can adjust himself and start peeling away Zane's leather pants. He takes his time, and once the other man is entirely bare from the waist down, he tugs Zane in closer by hitching a leg over his shoulder.
"I think -" Scratch pauses, just long enough to press his fingers into Zane's mouth. "- it's only fair that I get to come first and you have to wait. Nod if you agree."
Really, it probably won't take long. Scratch is worked up and already almost on the edge, and Zane is looking perfectly debauched underneath him. His curls are a mess, face almost as red and flushed as his lips, the belt sitting so nicely around his throat that all Scratch has to do is pull at both ends and keep pulling until the manic spark leaves Zane's eyes -
The thought alone could be enough to finish Scratch right then and there. His cock twitches and a shiver runs through him. He composes himself by sucking in a deep breath through his nose, pressing the fingers of his free hand hard into the soft, pale skin of Zane's thigh.
Zane all but sighs into the kiss, as rough and as wild as it is, far too preoccupied with running his hands everywhere he can on Scratch's body with hunger before the world spins and turns upside down and he shifts, Scratch pinning him underneath him with those thighs that Zane daydreams about, sometimes.
What he doesn't like is that pout. That condescension, and even if Thomas' face twists into a flash of anger, lips tight and blue eyes accusatory, his cock is hard and impossible to deny once his erection is free from his leather pants, upright and wanting.
Nothing's fair with Scratch And he's about to open his mouth and say so when Scratch shoves those beautiful elegant fingers into his mouth, forceful and commanding. Zane's hips arc upwards in response, swirling his tongue around instinctively, tilting his head back. The room is spinning still from the drugs--mild vertigo. Zane embraces it, welcomes it as he nods, digging his heel into the back of Scratch's shoulder to encourage him. One hand hand moves to curl around Scratch's cock, thumb rubbing over the tip, swiping down the small slit. A silent refusal to be passive in this party. Scratch's eyes are dark with want and something else. Zane thinks they remind him of a grim reaper, and that thought alone causes him to use his free hand to cup at Scratch's jaw in an alarmingly gentle, intimate gesture.
If Zane gets bothered by the condescension, then Scratch certainly gets bothered by the brief flicker of almost sweetness in Zane's touch. Scratch doesn't do intimate. He doesn't do gentle. It's weak. It's boring.
"You can talk now."
He draws his fingers free of the warmth of Zane's mouth, giving the filmmaker a little smack on the cheek before those fingers are (unceremoniously) pressed inside Zane. Sometimes Scratch doesn't even bother with any sort of prep, but if the point is to make Thomas wait, well. He should so something to make it feel as good as possible. Even that doesn't last long. Scratch's fingers are quickly replaced with a rough push of his cock and a steady-paced rhythm of his hips.
The small smack stings in the most pleasant way possible, not enough to bruise, hardly enough to mark, but sinfully divine in the way it gently rattles Zane's skull.
Mostly, he's pleased he knows exactly how to goad Scratch into doing what he wants. Even if its just a little slap. Let him think he has power--revel in his shot calling--but he can speak now and those fingers are causing his back to arch and oh, there it is, and he can talk now. As Zane digs his heel in to press Scratch's already demanding thrusts further into him, hands snatch at that still half-open shirt, tugging as his eyes slide closed with a loud, heady moan.
"Yes," he hisses as the other fucks him. Zane rolls his hips as much as he can with the rhythm, looking at the face that belongs to more than just him now. This is his favourite part, and not just because of how Scratch is hitting that spot inside him with ease, filling him and causing him to see stars--it's because he can see that unraveling, it's because he can pull him closer like he is now for a desperate, violent kiss. He tastes blood and he's not sure who's it is, and Zane, finally letting go of that shirt, finds his hand gripping Scratch's shorter hair. He tugs hard, sharp, payback, and his voice is breathy as he pants, trying to speak between his moans. Zane has always been loud, even before the Dark Place.
He could stop. He should stop, just get up and walk away and leave Zane there without the satisfaction of release just to remind him who's the one in charge right now. Luckily for him, Scratch is enjoying himself, so he's not going to stop.
"Say please," he huffs out, a sheen of sweat starting to glisten on his forehead.
Scratch doesn't care if Zane says please or not. It's more ideal if he can't because of the relentless way Scratch is fucking him, but he holds on long enough to give Zane the opportunity to try. He comes with a throat grunt, snapping his hips one more time and riding out the slight shudders while he's still buried inside the tight heat of the other man.
After a moment where he allows himself to regain his composure, Scratch brushes his fingers through Zane's hair in a gesture that's as close to affection as he can get. Then, because he promised, he wraps those same fingers around Zane's cock.
He says please. He says please loudly and eagerly, crying it out as the other finishes. Zane feels like his reward gets to be Scratch coming inside him, that swift grunt as Zane expertly raises his hips to meet him, holding him in, panting and on the verge himself with how alive he feels. This is sex with Scratch--dangerous, dirty and divine all at once.
He murmurs Scratch's name, chest rising and falling, choosing to take Scratch's touch as a sign of praise he's not sure the dark presence is capable of actually, fully giving.
"Yes," Zane murmurs, arching his hips to the touch of that hand on his cock. He brings his hands up to grab at Scratch's body, snaking up that shirt and onto bare back, scratching at him with his nails, just long enough to leave marks. He keeps Scratch inside of him out of some fucked up feeling of possession.
"That's perfect," he urges, and through the pants and grunts, hips arching, and he can't help himself. "That's a good boy. Just--just like that."
He should be annoyed that Zane's reversing the script, but he's not. Right now, in this moment, he likes it. Maybe it's the fingernails digging into his skin or the way that Zane wants him so bad. It doesn't matter.
The rhythm of his hand stays steady as his free hand pulls the belt free, revealing the red marks around Zane's throat. Scratch leans over to press his mouth to them, revelling in his own work.
"Are you going to come for me, Tom?"
He breathes the words against Zane's ear, leaving his mouth there so Zane can hear his own heaving breathing.
It's exactly what he needs to hear--Zane nods, panting and full of desire. They both want this: to be wanted, to be a little less alone, to go a little out of their minds.
Scratch's breath is hot on his ear, the rush of air back in his lungs, sweet question said by cruel lips sending him over the edge.
He comes, hips stuttering, clinging wildly to Scratch as he pants the other's name over and over, repeating it like a holy mantra.
Scratch gives Zane a rough pat on the cheek and detaches himself from the other man, standing up to go get his abandoned drink. He's sweaty and disheveled, and he hates the unclean feeling, but he's trusting Zane to do his thing and put them back together once he's composed himself.
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no subject
Sometimes he doesn't like it, but he likes it more often than he doesn't.
So here he is, in the dimly lit hotel room, some record playing in the background. His jacket's been abandoned somewhere, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened as he shimmies around to the music. There's a drink in his hand that he takes a sip of in the middle of his own personal dance party.
"If I have to listen to this song again, I'm breaking it."
no subject
They're in his hotel room, the dingy, rain soaked New York streets Alan has placed to navigate the Dark Place casting strange shadows along the dimly lit walls. Zane watches those hips with admiration.
"The music is rudimentary but the lyrics--Jim Morrison has an eye for the spoken word. Come sit, handsome."
no subject
Another sip of his drink and Scratch makes his way over to the poet-turned-filmmaker, doing a sort of step-touch along the way.
"Why don't we ever listen to anything a little more pa-cha-cha-ah?"
The vocal percussions are emphasized with some shoulder movements, then he's himself on the floor, stretching out horizontally so his head can rest in Zane's lap.
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He doesn't actually care much about what's playing. He'd change it if Scratch turned frightful. Now, though, Scratch is in a good mood and that means so is Zane. The hash in his system and the near constant stream of negronis don't help with that, but they do help with Thomas's creative cycle.
That's what truly matters.
"If you want to party, though, then we can certainly party." He takes a drag off of the hookah pipe, leans all the way back as he holds it, eyes slipping closed. He exhales, and when he does his whole body seems to rise and then fall towards Scratch in an alarmingly elegant, if erratic way. He offers the pipe to Scratch.
"Just say the word."
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Honestly, Scratch doesn't care. If he wanted to party then they'd be partying, because Tom's right. All he has to do is say the word and there's no way it wouldn't happen. But the most constant thing about Scratch is that he prefers a degree of quietness, and right now this is perfect.
Even if he's heard this damn record too many times.
He keeps his eyes fixed on Zane's face as his lips wrap around the pipe. It's not his style much, either, but the other's right. He's in a good mood in the relatively serenity of the moment. He lets the smoke draw into him and then exhales, watching it curl up around Zane's features and through his manic curls.
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“In the meadow, slick with rain
The lion sits, anticipating.
Woe for those untowards
---Its claws are gleaming.”
He smiles, looking down at Scratch, still running his hands through his hair.
“Hello, handsome.”
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He doesn't like being overlooked, least of all when he's right there.
Reaching up, Scratch curls a hand around the back of Zane's neck. It's too firm, too much pressure to be particularly affectionate, as he pulls the other man's face down close to his.
"Who's the lion, Tom?"
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"And while the labyrinth winds and loops and spirals, the egg will form an island. On a lake. Don't you see?"
Zane's voice lowers in a whisper, his hands moving to cup the other's face in his lap. It's soft, gentle, despite the firm grip on him. Dualism at it's finest.
"Completely covering woe, smothering it, burying it. Don't you see?"
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"Lake this, lake that, enough with the overdone lake motifs."
It's not cool. It was never cool, and if he has to hear Zane or Alan mention lakes one more time he's going to barf and then he's going to lose his temper.
His fingers dig in a little more to Zane's neck. It'll probably leave a mark. He hopes it'll leave a mark. The other man's so out of it that he probably won't even notice.
"I'm the lion, Tom. And this?" He motions to the hotel room, but he means the Dark Place as a whole. "This is my savanna. Don't forget that."
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Scratch doesn't write. Can't write. That's the only problem. Zane can't guide him like he did with Alan. Scratch wouldn't be a very good person to guide, anyway. And Zane? Zane is free, but he has to get out, has to move, even if this is lovely now. He can feel himself sinking.
"Oh, of course," he placates he other, eyes still wide with manic energy, unable to stop his grin. He leans down, pulling the other into a hard and fervent kiss.
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But right now? Right now, Scratch chooses to be here, and he doesn't think Zane appreciates it as much as he should.
At least Zane does something right when he pulls Scratch into a frenzied sort of kiss. His fingers move, slipping up to tangle up in the other's curls, holding him there.
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Both of them, free and not.
The hand moves to his curls, and even with the devouring kiss he's instigated can't stop the grin on his face as his hands move to Scratch's shoulders, dipping into that half-open shirt, touching the other's chest with fevered reverence.
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He gives Zane's hair a sharp tug, a rewarding and encouraging gesture (this time around).
"Can't keep your hands off me, can you?"
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He could write a sonnet. He could write ten sonnets. He could make a film. He could--
Zane's lips part, eyes widening to a ridiculous degree.
He could make a film. A different one. Not Nightless Night, but something else. Just for him. The hand on the other's bare chest stills as Zane's eyes dart to and fro.
"I've just thought of something beautiful," he says. As beautiful as the bruises on the back of his neck that will heal within a day.
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Zane's in one of Those Moods, apparently, attention span flitting back and forth. Scratch has settled down in regards to his annoyance at not being the centre of attention, because a part of him recognizes that he's still the subject of this mind-shift.
"Kiss me first then tell me about it."
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Things are complicated now. And yet, he feels illuminated. It's the hookah, it's eyes on him, it's the temporary alleviation of just him. He's not lonely, but company is always nice.
But Scratch wants another kiss and Scratch gets what he wants. Zane eyes the other, not bothering to hide the lust underneath the way his the corner of his eyes turn up when he gives a fox-like smirk.
"I could do more than that," he offers, hand on that stocky chest moving a little further, undoing some of the buttons on the other's white button-down shirt. Flighty. thinking.
Framing the other like this, studying him intently. Looking for inspiration in a dark, hollow presence.
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"You always know how to make me feel good."
It's one of the very few reasons why Scratch keeps Zane around. Not that he doesn't like to make Zane feel good, either, but his motives are more selfish than the other's. And he does enjoy having others submit themselves to him.
Which he why he doesn't move to help or assist. Scratch is perfectly content to let Zane spoil him.
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But bodies, they're the same. Zane's smirk is still on his face as he takes his hands and moves them to the other's cheeks. Index fingers glide alongside Scratch's jaw, a gentle half-massage as he frames the other's face before lifting him up and sliding out.
He edits reality, warps the space like only he can: Scratch is in his lap, and then Scratch has a pile of pillows where Zane's legs would be, and the vinyl player is playing Scratch's favourite party song as Zane slides his poet's shirt off, standing in front of him, hips swaying as he grooves, shoulders pumping as he sinks to his feet with exaggerated affectation. He throws his shirt across the room.
"Anything for you, darling," his voice is a purr as many ringed fingers begin to undo Scratches belt.
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Right now, though, like this, Scratch is pleased that Zane is moving things along. He rests his hands behind his head, contented with both the change in music and the way he can admire the fluidity in Zane's movements. And those fingers, God, Scratch knows just how good they are. He exhales the breath of a man overcome with want, but he waits. He won't interrupt the show.
He does, however, decide to grace the other man with a compliment.
"So pretty," Scratch murmurs. He reaches out a hand to twist a curl around his fingers. "So eager to please."
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Yes, he's attractive. And Scratch is attractive, with that same face and stubble and short, slicked back hair.
"Go on, darling," he encourages, demanding more praise as he presses lips to the middle of Scratch's chest. Thomas kisses down the other's chest, hands moving from Scratch's exposed shoulders down, index and thumb lightly pinching a nipple as he languidly, unhurriedly creeps lower.
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He grabs the hand teasing at his nipple, gripping it uncomfortably by the wrist.
"Careful, Tom," he says, his own voice matching the purr-like quality of Zane's, "I was starting to think you've been good enough to choose tonight. Was I wrong?"
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The grip is uncomfortable, but Zane rather likes it.
"Tightrope walking," Zane quotes, and he moves the wrist gently towards his mouth, hair over one eye. "Would you choose a safety net that traps you?" His lips move over those knuckles, ghosting his breath against them, "And kills the thrill. Thin weave of wires slices your flesh."
He's pushing it, and he knows he is, so Tom lets his free hand undo Scratch's belt in one satisfying, practiced motion. His brows raise, looking directly into the dark presence's eyes.
"I must prefer the dark air in-between soft shadows. Hug you gently all the way to the ground."
He takes Scratch's index finger into his mouth, sucking suggestively as he begins to undo those stylish pants. The top button first, and then the zipper.
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Which is to say, when it's full or occupied doing something other than talking. Sometimes he wonders if Zane ever knows what he's talking about, or if he just goes out of his way to speak in twisted riddles because it's his gimmick.
Scratch brushes his thumb along Tom's jaw, a show of (false) affection meant to signify that he's still behaving well.
"Let's play a game. You don't make any sound at all until I say you can, and I'll give you a little treat."
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Zane can handle him. He's not sure Alan can. Not now.
So Tom gasps--a soft, slight 'oh!' of discovery as the doppelganger instructs him. Yes, he can do that. The music is still playing, the pillows soft. There's a perfectly mixed negroni by Scratch's side, the air is still cloyingly sweet with whatever Zane had decided to smoke, and the poet himself is pulling the belt entirely free, wresting it free and leaning back (mouth off of the the other's fingers) only to casually fit the belt around his shoulders like it's some sort of wrap or scarf.
He can't speak, but he can return his attention fully onto the other's broad chest and barreled body, licking from the top of the other's briefs up to by his bellybutton. He can tease in other ways, fingers curling against pants and pulling with a sharp, twisting tug, that slightly mad smirk still firmly in place.
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He didn't expect Zane to disagree, though, so he's not surprised by the complacency. He enjoys it all the same.
He especially enjoys the belt resting over Zane's shoulders. Did Zane do it on purpose? It doesn't matter. When the other man is close enough, Scratch gently loops the belt around Zane's neck, giving it a light tug to tighten it against Zane's throat. Yes, he likes that a lot.
Scratch lifts his hips enough to help Zane get his pants free, loosening the slack on the belt for the moment.
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None of this stops his hands, how he inhales greedily at the smell of Scratch's musk as he peels those briefs off. He knows Scratch enjoys his clothes, his fashion--he keeps the clothes on as much as he can because that's hot, too.
He wants to speak. It's killing him, not running this mouth, words and phrases tripping overthemselves in his mind, desperate to manifest. But Scratch says no, so instead Zane's fingers curl themselves around Scratch's half-hard cock, licking up the shaft obscenely.
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But that's later.
With one hand keeping hold of the belt, his other hand digs deeper into Zane's hair.
"You just love being shameless, don't you?" He gives a tug on the belt, a pre-emptive warning to remind Zane he's not allowed to talk. "Show me how much you like it."
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That little tug, the simple act of reminding him means a small, pleased moan escapes from the back of his throat as he decides that his mouth would, for once, be better used not spouting off poetry. If Scratch is showering him with his version of compliments, how is he to say no? He's in it for the art, but that doesn't mean his ego is lacking.
Thomas instead focuses on the spike of pleasure that lances through him at the situation as he moves one of his hands, placing the palm on the other's lower abdomen. The other remains holding the base of Scratch's cock as he flicks his tongue lightly over Scratch's head before taking him into his mouth, lowering himself while taking care not to move too erratically. Not with the belt looped around his neck.
His fingers flex, teasing the other's chest as he works on getting the other fully hard.
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Maybe it's because Zane knows him. He knows exactly what to do with his tongue, his fingers, knows when to be good and when he can push Scratch's buttons just right. It'll almost be a shame when the inevitable comes to send them different ways.
Almost.
But it's that sweet little sound Zane makes, the man being as pleased to give as Scratch is to receive, that gets Scratch hard and pressing his hips up into Zane's welcoming mouth. Now that Zane's shown he understands the assignment, Scratch lets go of the belt, leaving it hanging loosely but still wrapped around Zane's pretty swan-like neck. His free hand travels down, fingers brushing Zane's back until it comes down in a smack against the leather-clad ass the man was so eager to show off.
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He can't run his mouth if it's too busy servicing, and he begins to bob his head, lips wrapped around Scratch's cock, mouth hot and wet. This is what he wants--more, even, because for all Scratch is put together, control woven into him with shadowy tendrils, Zane loves when he falls apart. The folly of being human.
Zane decides that's his personal goal to see that more than once, to see Scratch like that before the night is out.
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He lets the other man show off a bit longer before taking back control. Scratch tightens his grip on Zane's hair, using his strength as leverage to press his head down more. His other hand comes up to help hold Thomas's head still, so he can thrust his hips up at an unrelenting pace.
"Fuck -"
This could do it for him. He could keep this up, keep fucking Zane's mouth just like this, but he's feeling generous. He's in a good mood and his little pet hasn't done anything to upset him. Scratch likes to remind Zane that he likes him (as much as Scratch can truly like anyone that isn't himself). He stills his thrusts when he knows he's pushed Zane to the point of needing relief, using the fist of curls to pull Zane up for a momentarily crushing kiss.
"Go on, finish me off."
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Physically, yes: but Zane craves this, loves this, breathes through his nose when he can because those strong hands are manhandling him down. Scratch's cock hits the back of his throat again and again and even as Zane relaxes it it's too much. It's primal and raw and Thomas is fully prepared to start to choke again, tiny blissful tears threatening to spill over his face when Scratch pulls him up.
Scratch kisses like he means it and Zane nearly crushes his own face into the dark doppelganger, noses bumping almost violently. It's ugly and full of want, desire in every aspect of Zane's touches. Scratch encourages him to finish but Zane isn't done.
Zane laughs instead, because he can't speak. It's a bright, mad laugh, lips red and bruised and face flushed, and there's a flash of teeth as he moves in for a second kiss. He'll stop until his harshness makes Scratch bleed or Scratch shoves him off, immediately taking his place between Scratches thighs.
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With Zane settled between his thighs, it's easy for Scratch to twist them both around, landing with Zane's back against the floor and Scratch pinning him there as he straddles the man. He keeps his fingers tucked into the belt loop as he tuts his tongue.
"Oh, Tom," he says, turning his face into a mocking sort of pout, "you were doing so good. I had the best little treat for you but you just couldn't help yourself, could you? What should the loser of the game get?"
Scratch slips his fingers free, only so he can adjust himself and start peeling away Zane's leather pants. He takes his time, and once the other man is entirely bare from the waist down, he tugs Zane in closer by hitching a leg over his shoulder.
"I think -" Scratch pauses, just long enough to press his fingers into Zane's mouth. "- it's only fair that I get to come first and you have to wait. Nod if you agree."
Really, it probably won't take long. Scratch is worked up and already almost on the edge, and Zane is looking perfectly debauched underneath him. His curls are a mess, face almost as red and flushed as his lips, the belt sitting so nicely around his throat that all Scratch has to do is pull at both ends and keep pulling until the manic spark leaves Zane's eyes -
The thought alone could be enough to finish Scratch right then and there. His cock twitches and a shiver runs through him. He composes himself by sucking in a deep breath through his nose, pressing the fingers of his free hand hard into the soft, pale skin of Zane's thigh.
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What he doesn't like is that pout. That condescension, and even if Thomas' face twists into a flash of anger, lips tight and blue eyes accusatory, his cock is hard and impossible to deny once his erection is free from his leather pants, upright and wanting.
Nothing's fair with Scratch And he's about to open his mouth and say so when Scratch shoves those beautiful elegant fingers into his mouth, forceful and commanding. Zane's hips arc upwards in response, swirling his tongue around instinctively, tilting his head back. The room is spinning still from the drugs--mild vertigo. Zane embraces it, welcomes it as he nods, digging his heel into the back of Scratch's shoulder to encourage him. One hand hand moves to curl around Scratch's cock, thumb rubbing over the tip, swiping down the small slit. A silent refusal to be passive in this party. Scratch's eyes are dark with want and something else. Zane thinks they remind him of a grim reaper, and that thought alone causes him to use his free hand to cup at Scratch's jaw in an alarmingly gentle, intimate gesture.
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"You can talk now."
He draws his fingers free of the warmth of Zane's mouth, giving the filmmaker a little smack on the cheek before those fingers are (unceremoniously) pressed inside Zane. Sometimes Scratch doesn't even bother with any sort of prep, but if the point is to make Thomas wait, well. He should so something to make it feel as good as possible. Even that doesn't last long. Scratch's fingers are quickly replaced with a rough push of his cock and a steady-paced rhythm of his hips.
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Mostly, he's pleased he knows exactly how to goad Scratch into doing what he wants. Even if its just a little slap. Let him think he has power--revel in his shot calling--but he can speak now and those fingers are causing his back to arch and oh, there it is, and he can talk now. As Zane digs his heel in to press Scratch's already demanding thrusts further into him, hands snatch at that still half-open shirt, tugging as his eyes slide closed with a loud, heady moan.
"Yes," he hisses as the other fucks him. Zane rolls his hips as much as he can with the rhythm, looking at the face that belongs to more than just him now. This is his favourite part, and not just because of how Scratch is hitting that spot inside him with ease, filling him and causing him to see stars--it's because he can see that unraveling, it's because he can pull him closer like he is now for a desperate, violent kiss. He tastes blood and he's not sure who's it is, and Zane, finally letting go of that shirt, finds his hand gripping Scratch's shorter hair. He tugs hard, sharp, payback, and his voice is breathy as he pants, trying to speak between his moans. Zane has always been loud, even before the Dark Place.
"Don't you dare fucking stop."
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"Say please," he huffs out, a sheen of sweat starting to glisten on his forehead.
Scratch doesn't care if Zane says please or not. It's more ideal if he can't because of the relentless way Scratch is fucking him, but he holds on long enough to give Zane the opportunity to try. He comes with a throat grunt, snapping his hips one more time and riding out the slight shudders while he's still buried inside the tight heat of the other man.
After a moment where he allows himself to regain his composure, Scratch brushes his fingers through Zane's hair in a gesture that's as close to affection as he can get. Then, because he promised, he wraps those same fingers around Zane's cock.
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He murmurs Scratch's name, chest rising and falling, choosing to take Scratch's touch as a sign of praise he's not sure the dark presence is capable of actually, fully giving.
"Yes," Zane murmurs, arching his hips to the touch of that hand on his cock. He brings his hands up to grab at Scratch's body, snaking up that shirt and onto bare back, scratching at him with his nails, just long enough to leave marks. He keeps Scratch inside of him out of some fucked up feeling of possession.
"That's perfect," he urges, and through the pants and grunts, hips arching, and he can't help himself. "That's a good boy. Just--just like that."
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The rhythm of his hand stays steady as his free hand pulls the belt free, revealing the red marks around Zane's throat. Scratch leans over to press his mouth to them, revelling in his own work.
"Are you going to come for me, Tom?"
He breathes the words against Zane's ear, leaving his mouth there so Zane can hear his own heaving breathing.
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Scratch's breath is hot on his ear, the rush of air back in his lungs, sweet question said by cruel lips sending him over the edge.
He comes, hips stuttering, clinging wildly to Scratch as he pants the other's name over and over, repeating it like a holy mantra.
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Scratch gives Zane a rough pat on the cheek and detaches himself from the other man, standing up to go get his abandoned drink. He's sweaty and disheveled, and he hates the unclean feeling, but he's trusting Zane to do his thing and put them back together once he's composed himself.