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It's been a long time. But Doc Scratch opens the door like you just stepped out it, and smiles his infuriating smile, and gestures you inside. You stand on his doorstep and clasp your fist in your metal hand and ask him if he's got a good reason you shouldn't fill his skull with midnight for all the shit he's pulled.
He smiles again and meaningfully, deliberately adjusts his spectacles. They're weird glasses- too old for him, or at least, too old for how old he looks- horn-rimmed and, well, scratched. He calls attention to them through the gesture. It's not like he needs them to see. It's a reminder of his status, of his knowledge, of the big play of mystique and elder confidence he projects on everybody wherever he goes. You, predictably, hate it.
He keeps his finger and thumb on the specs for a moment after he finishes- a last suggestion. They're clad, as always, in immaculate white gloves, a few form-defining stitches across the back of the hand, matching the spotless white coat and trousers, and the nearly-transparent skin. Even his eyes are the shade of nothing; except for his shirt and tie, Doc Scratch is a man without colour. The aforementioned items proclaim his allegiance all too clearly, though. Only the Felt, only Lord English, flies that virulent green.
Finally, he smiles emptily and removes his gloved fingers from his glasses to clasp them in front of him. The suggestion of the adjustment continues- "Let's get down to business," he seems to say. But he actually says something else entirely.
"First, Spades Slick," he says, "and may I call you 'Slick'? I know it is not my name for you, but you seem to prefer it?"
You set your expression in a comfortably contorted snarl, but you don't disagree. He seems to take it as read.
"Excellent, Slick, thank you," he continues. He gestures minutely to a streamlined green sofa. Perhaps you would like a seat? You demur without words and advance a little on him to give him a silent message of your own- "Get to the point or I'll shove a tire iron down your throat". He's driven away from the open door, without a chance to close it.
"No? Very well. Then first, I will suggest that perhaps you are being a little rash, leaping as you are to conclusions based on facts you cannot see the full breadth of. Naturally, seeing as I do all conclusions and all facts they stem from, I can state with some authority that this is the case. Perhaps, if you care to pause to consider them, more facts may reveal themselves. I am not averse to playing a part in this process, not that you wish me to."
Well, he's got one part right, at least. You by no means feel sunshine-happy-joy at the thought of spending more than twenty seconds in Doc Scratch's company. However, the idea of beating him senseless and possibly leaving him in a box for his boss to dig out does seem appealing.
"Of course, I will not play the role you would like me to. That is simply not what Fate has in store, not that I can truly ascribe these actions to be Fate; knowing logical consequence is easier when you can see everything."
Oh, he'll play your role, alright. You are going to take a cast iron horse hitcher to this guy and it is going to be glorious. "Fast talker, Scratch," you say, advancing further. The Doctor takes a single step which puts the couch between you and him for another moment. "Might want to talk a bit faster if you want to get all those words out before I break your jaw."
Doc Scratch smiles faintly. "Yes, indeed, I am aware that by the end of this, I may be nursing a sore jaw indeed. But, Slick," and the Doctor looks at you directly over his scratched spectacles, "I must warn you. If you persist in your actions towards me, you will regret it."
The words stop you in your tracks as your mind repeats them. It can't be a threat. Doc Scratch is all bark and no bite. He's got nothing to him. He barks plenty when you're far off, manipulates and fixes up his world like some spider at the center of a web. But when you get up in that web, he's got no bark to back it up. The spider/dog metaphor is killing you. You hate metaphor anyhow. And it's actually a simile, but you don't care.
The important part is that Doc Scratch cannot be threatening you. It's not a thing that can happen. So it's got to be a promise. He knows something you don't. If you keep this up, something's going to happen.
And you really want to keep it up. You have been jiving for years over the thought of this moment, the chance to finally wreck this smug spider who's all bark. But he's got some kind of security. And you have no idea what.
You've got to get around it. How? What do you have at your disposal? How can you wreck Doc Scratch without attacking him?
You are not about to let this smug skinny wimp get the better of you. You push him onto his green sofa and are on him immediately. You have always controlled your body with greater ease than you have your mind; it responds without question as you hem him in, a fist shoved into the fabric of the streamlined couch beside his neck, another gripping his shirtfront, a knee between his thighs and the other pinning one of his legs. You growl into his ear, just to make sure he understands you.
"You're gonna shut up now, Doc," you mutter to him, breath catching his. "And just to make sure, let's get that mouth of yours full before you spout any more prophecy at me."
You shove your tongue in his mouth. Whatever he's got in place to guard him, whatever he's ensured, he won't have been accounting for this. Now, no matter what happens, you can finish this on your own terms. Scratch'll either struggle (but it can't be classed as an attack, because you're not stabbing him with anything lethal), or he'll enjoy it, or any hundred billion other options he won't have considered because of what a genius unlikely Plan B this is.
Scratch doesn't respond, exactly. But he just... allows it. Once your hand beside his jaw reaches to twist and tangle in his hair, messing it out of its clean simple neatness, one of his gloved hands clasps the back of your neck. After you bite his lip, you feel his tongue begin to play against yours. When you start ripping buttons off his white jacket, he finally disentangles and strips it off, saving further buttons from doom at the hands of his arch-enemy.
He is down to his white trousers, his green shirt, suspenders, and bow tie. The bow tie is the next victim; you cinch it a bit tighter around his neck as you remove it, and he arches obligingly, revealing more of his neck for you to sink your teeth into. You throw the tie over the back of the couch; it hangs on some sharp white piece of bizarre modern art and sticks there like a Christmas tree ornament.
You set your jaw and give him an allowing nod, then sit up, straddling him. He slips the suspenders off his arms, then begins unbuttoning his neon shirt, revealing pale, pale skin beneath. You get your jacket off and start leaving vicious trails of bite marks down his chest. When you reach his belt, you stop; this wouldn't be your first time in a situation like this, but there ain't no way you're going down on Doc Scratch. This is your plan, and you're in charge.
A minute later, and you're on the sofa, lounging across it, with Scratch at your feet, kneeling and looking as politely gracious as he did when he offered to take your hat and coat at the door. Naturally, you kept them on, and while your coat is probably hanging over some equally stupid-looking piece of "art" behind you, your hat is carefully place within easy reach on your good side. No way you're going to let your hat out of sight, blow job or no blow job.
Honestly, this started as half a joke, but you're getting pretty turned-on by it. Something about having him down there, having a powerless Felt sucking you off, really gets you going. Oh yeah, that would be everything about having a powerless Felt sucking you off. The prestige. The pleasure. The power. Pretty much the whole thing is exactly the way you like it. You tangle your hand in his hair, hearing the servos grind as you mess it up beyond recognition.
And sure, maybe you'd prefer to have that tire iron down his throat and not your cock, from a purely enmity-based standpoint, but as secondary plans go, this ain't so bad. You've seen a whole lot worse and a whole lot less enjoyable. You're okay with this.
You're forced to admit that the tire iron only barely wins out by virtue of the simple pleasure of beating a man's skull in, because Doc Scratch is actually pretty good at this. "Guess English doesn't just use you as a doorman," you mutter to him. You're a little disappointed that all he does is smile around your cock. Maybe he really does do this to Lord English. You're going to think about that later, if at all.
Finally, you've had enough, and push him over the couch. He braces himself against the back as you push into him- none too gently, either, but you're starting to kind of like the sound of him giving soft, almost soundless moans beneath you, so you take it easier on him than you might have earlier. The sounds are really different; you've never fucked anyone so... well, you can't call him 'responsive', exactly. He doesn't respond. But you know he feels it, and you know that the sounds he does let out are, if intentional, honest. If Doc Scratch doesn't tell the whole truth, he's not a liar, either, and any soft moan he does allow out is clearly felt deeper than he expresses. Or can express.
You sling your arms under him, grip around his shoulders, and rock into him. Beneath, Scratch is bracing himself with both arms, kneeling on the couch. His surreal house with no inside doors stretches out around you in baleful green, full of green furniture and green tiles and green wallpaper. The light filtering in through the open door is green once it enters the house.
"Ah," breathes Scratch below you, "perhaps you- nnnnm- should finish up, Slick." His voice isn't shaky, but it seems fainter than usual. You just grin. "Getting tired, Doc?"
"Nnnnno," he murmurs into the couch, rocking with your hips against him, "it is merely, ahh, a suggestion. I thought- ah- you might appreciate a second warning."
A second warning? When was the first? He only issued the one before you changed tactic to try to beat him at his own oh fuck no.
You realize it only a second before you finish. Maybe it's a bit of the shock that pushes you over the edge. Doc Scratch, beneath you, stiffens, gloved hands gripping the top of the sofa. His pale back arches as for a second, reeling mindlessly, you grab his hips and thrust without thought; in moments he's spurting over the couch back and letting out an actual moan, just one long 'Ohhhhh-' before, tousled, he hangs his head to catch his breath.
The light is green. The room is green. The cigarette smoke drifting in and pervading the room is green. You stare almost without recognition at the long curved form reclining against the doorframe.
Snowman blinks her huge, innocent eyes once, twice. You stare back, beginning to have the full ridiculousness of the situation settle in. Your teeth bare but can't manage a snarl with the endorphins flooding your brain; you settle into a pained expression of horror, and are forced to make do with that.
"I'm not going to ask," she says at last. "But I will say this: Slick, you are a complete idiot." Then she turns, smoke making a ring around her, and slinks off.
After a moment of staring at nothing, you look down at Scratch. He stirs slightly and sighs. "Well. I did warn you," he says calmly.
Your frozen expression of dismay turns on him, and you begin to think you should have started with the tire iron, after all.