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Blood. Red, brilliant flecks all over Scratch’s shadow-wreathed, bare frame. A multitude of tiny scarlet droplets calling out to Alan just before his face is unceremoniously shoved against his double’s collarbone, right in the middle of a fresh, wet crimson stain.
Blood. A potent, salty taste of iron with just a hint of bitterness concealed underneath. Smooth against his tongue. Slick and clinging to the roof of his mouth. Coating the back of his teeth. Pervading his palate and flowing up to his nose, blotting out every other smell in the cheap hotel room except for the ever-present earthiness which he knows belongs to Scratch.
Blood. Shared by both of them, drying in chunks on their bodies, cracking and flaking with every single movement. Staining the white sheets underneath. Eating into their beings. Seeping into their cores. Connecting them on some new, entirely different level.
Another shudder. A muffled moan, barely bit back just in time. Scratch's uneven breathing picks up at the sight, far too loud in the surrounding stillness. They exhale at once only to share another breath the next second. Settling into a perfect synchronicity. Unwittingly mirroring one another. Reaching out at the same time and pressing their bodies together, tangling their limbs.
Alan hates just how much he loves it all.
Where is he, again? Why is Scratch here with him?
Why are they both naked?
Is this–
Does it really matter? He loves this. It’s fine.
Scratch pulls away from him to prod at the dried red flakes on his own cheek, scraping them under his dull nails. Finds another, fresher bloodstain underneath and drags his fingers through, tracing a red line on his skin. Carefully, deliberately brings the digits to Wake's parted lips and slowly slides them in, looking deep into the writer's eyes. Alan shatters under his gaze.
Bit by bit, every last hint of blood is gently lapped up from other's hands, swallowed down without any protest. Scratch remains silent throughout it all, boring dark eyes into his face before roughly shoving the fingers further into his throat, only to slide them back out not even a moment later. The movement repeats and all of a sudden Wake is flushed, willingly opening his mouth further, inviting the other to continue.
His double proceeds at once, violating Alan’s throat and tongue for a few moments before pulling back in earnest and grabbing at his slender sides, repositioning them both. Scratch's hands swiftly find their way to his lower back, gripping and kneading the taut flesh, giving him only a short warning. A few digits slide lower and push directly into him, drawing another tremor out of him, coaxing the same groan from his chest yet again. Alan wills himself to calm down, burying his rapidly reddening face in the crook of his counterpart’s bloodied neck and sinking lower onto the slick fingers despite mild pain and growing discomfort. The other growls into his ear and adds another digit to the first two, instigated by Wake’s eagerness.
An intrusive idea seizes the writer while his mirror image works him open. Convinces him to carefully tip his head back and put a small amount of distance between them, to focus on Scratch’s stained neck. His internal conflict comes to life with a surprising force, embroiling him in a deluge of disgust, confusion, and regret, cautioning him against giving further into this depravity. The mounting pleasure blooming inside him clashes against his rationale, imploring Alan to do the exact opposite and willingly throw himself over the edge, to reach out and seize what he desires.
He freezes in the moment, tensing up just when Scratch pushes into him again, gasping out in pain. His double makes a discontent sound and digs the other hand harder into his skin, leaving a vivid red imprint.
“Relax.”
The command is issued in an unkind, impatient tone, all too sharp against his ears. Yet another show of Scratch's hold over Wake. A clear sign telling them both who is in control. Alan mutters a curse under his breath and does as he is told, unraveling beneath other’s attention, rapidly losing every last vestige of his defiance. A sudden, harsh thrust punctuated by a familiar surge of elation ends up being enough to tip him over, dismissing all of his concerns at once.
Alan resigns himself, wrapping his own hands around Scratch’s back and leaning further into him, placing his lips on his double’s neck. The writer’s tongue darts out and licks at the heated skin, dragging upwards right over another patch of dried blood and over the first hints of rough stubble, intensifying the coppery taste still lingering in his mouth. Another twist of sick fascination rises in the pit of his stomach.
Next to him, Scratch halts his motions all at once. When he speaks next his voice is distorted and brimming with darkness, both cruel and delighted at the same time.
“So you are enjoying this, after all.”
The fingers easily slide out of his body only to be driven back in with a full force, snatching a loud, pained yelp from his mouth. Alan digs into his double’s back, steels himself and tries his best to not let other’s words get to him. It proves to be a hard task as Scratch seems to be unable to stop himself from talking any longer, entranced by the sound of his own voice.
“You want this, don’t you? Want me all over you? Inside you? Want to be pinned down and fucked by your better half?” A gleeful pause followed by more rough movements inside him, reaching deeper into his tight heat, brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes him jerk upwards. “Isn’t that right, Wake?”
No reply. A surge of insolence rouses within the writer, hot bitterness and loathing overpowering him even now. Scratch is quick to sneer at his silence, pulling out of his body completely before repeating his question, leaving him uncomfortably hot and empty and wanting.
“I said, isn’t that right, buddy?”
Wake shifts on his double’s lap, scowls against other’s bloodied skin. Finally manages to overcome the indignation and give Scratch what he wishes.
“Yes.”
He hisses the short word out, rolling his hips into the other as he does so. His straining length brushes against Scratch’s flat stomach and brings him some delicious friction, but the brief contact is nowhere near enough. It only serves to agitate him further, feeding into his desire, making him even more desperate. He tries to repeat the movement but the other forcefully holds him in place, denying him any further relief.
“Use your words, writer boy.”
Another demand. Still just as harsh, yet laced with an undercurrent of his double’s own impatience. Wake can tell that Scratch’s self-restraint is beginning to crumble just like his own, that his answer has an obvious effect on the other. The notion that Scratch wants him almost makes Alan keen, though he suppresses the urge and simply concedes instead, finding it easier to acquiesce to his counterpart’s will the second time.
“I need you in me, Scratch. Please.”
No matter how much spite he tries to channel into the sentence, no matter how sarcastic he intends the plea to be, at the end of the day both of them know that every single word is genuine. His double’s grip on him relaxes and Alan is free to move again, permitted to eagerly grind back into Scratch’s form.
“Of course you do, Alan. Of course you do.” A pleased growl rumbles in other’s chest, the sound vibrating against Alan’s sensitive skin. Scratch presses them closer into each other, practically smashing their bodies together while speaking up at the same time. “Keep going. Lick all of that blood clean.” The other stops only to sink his teeth into Wake’s shoulder and leave a mark, breathing out before lazily lapping up at the wound, as if to demonstrate what he means. “I know you want to.”
Something bigger pushes against him this time, stopping just before entering him in earnest, teasing him with a promise of a much-needed relief. Scratch remains in place, seemingly content to wait until he obeys, languidly nuzzling into the bite and irritating the blotchy, broken skin by dragging his beard all over it.
Alan grits his teeth and returns to the task, intent on drawing out every movement to spite them both, only to immediately lose control altogether. His tongue swiftly finds its way back to his double’s throat, licking another wet stripe upwards, savoring the mixture of sweat and blood. Scratch rewards him by sinking into him, hilting inside the writer in one smooth motion, making them both tremble.
It is a whole lot less painful than Wake expects. He can feel Scratch stretching him from within, pushing him to his limit without being enough to cause him any real suffering. If anything, his double seems to fit inside him perfectly, filling Alan up just right, slotting into him as though he was always meant to, as though they were made for this. As though they are one.
It stirs something inside his heart.
Wasn’t he supposed to be writing and trying to escape the Dark Place?
Wasn’t he supposed to be running from Scratch, trying to return to Al–
He shouldn’t think about this. Not now.
He forcibly disregards the feeling and experimentally pushes himself upwards, quivering and jittery, only to slide back onto other’s girth, openly letting out a needy whimper. The sensation is divine. Once more, his lips are pressed against the side of his reflection’s neck, making him acutely aware of Scratch’s thrumming pulse, of the rush of blood– darkness? in his veins.
“Let me.” Scratch drawls out as he seizes Alan by his hips once more, his grip firm yet not bruising, unlike the last time. A fervent promise is unexpectedly uttered into the writer’s ear not even a moment later, breathy and soft, a stark contrast to his prior tone. “I’ll make us feel good, Alan. Real good. You will love this.”
He allows it. Finds himself incapable of coming up with another pointed retort, overflowing with an impossible need, sinking into his double’s body and lightly nipping at Scratch’s throat to signal that he is ready. The other starts moving without any delay, begins to fuck into him with steady, shallow thrusts. Alan arches his back and instinctively spreads his legs further, wrapping his thighs over other’s hips, squirming as his excitement slides all over Scratch's heated skin. He is on the verge of reaching down and touching himself when something convinces him to abandon that idea, to let Scratch unravel him completely. Wake presses back into his counterpart’s neck and lets out another moan, giving himself over to the sudden whim.
The other readily mirrors him, growls into the writer’s ear before guiding him up, almost pulling out of his body completely. Alan makes an uncertain sound but permits himself to be pushed upwards, planting a kiss on the side of Scratch's jaw and lapping up another speck of blood in the process, letting his hands roam all over his double’s sides. His nails dig right into other’s skin when Scratch drives him down not even a moment later, slamming back into him and reaching that sensitive, hidden spot far inside, snatching a scream from his lips.
“Scratch!”
The writer doesn’t register that he shouts his double’s name, shuddering with every consecutive, rough thrust, answering every single movement by helping Scratch reach deeper into him, ravenous and desperate to feel the other on every single inch of his skin. He becomes so engrossed in the moment that his reflection’s words barely reach his ears, temporarily yanking him back to reality just as he tenses up around Scratch’s length, uncomfortably hot and far too wound up to maintain their rhythm any longer.
“There we go.” Another soundless laugh running through both of them, radiating from Scratch and flowing into Wake, uniting them together. “Getting close, Alan? Don’t worry. I will take care of you.”
Scratch punctuates his promise by unexpectedly pushing the writer backwards, slamming him into the crimson sheets and holding him down, rutting into him and drowning him in a bottomless lake of intense, searing pleasure.
Alan finds himself just on the cusp of his release when an odd pang of fear breaks through his bliss and want, capturing his attention and forcefully burrowing into his mind. A dark, horrifying realization, thrashing violently against the confines of his psyche, unwilling to be ignored any longer.
All of this is wrong.
This shouldn’t be happening.
This isn’t how the story is meant to go.
But he enjoys all of this, wants more of it. Why shouldn’t he just give in? Scratch could give him everything he wants. Will certainly give him everything he wants.
He just has to let go and let this happen. He just has to let Scratch in.
No, no, no! He has to wake up. He must wake up, must stop this before–
The darkness blots out his vision, submerging him in a vast ocean of nothingness and rapidly pulling him away from the image of Scratch’s flushed, grinning face above him. Wake can swear that his double’s countenance changes into a furious scowl just before he blacks out in earnest, losing his consciousness.
When Alan opens his eyes again he is back in the Writer’s Room, tired gaze sweeping over the blurry, muted interior. His neck is stiff and uncomfortable, aching from being bent at the same angle for too long. He reaches out and absentmindedly rubs his throat with shaky hands, hissing out in discomfort as his memory swiftly supplies him with a recollection of what he had witnessed before.
Another terrible, unsettling nightmare conjured up by the Dark Place in an attempt to break his spirit, no doubt.
Wake groans out in disdain and brings his hands back up to bury his face in his palms, desperately ignoring the dread twisting in his gut, stopping abruptly when something catches his gaze.
Blood. Dried blood. Brownish in color, crawling under his every single nail, dotting his arms, staining the hems of his grey shirt. Countless circular droplets set into the creases of his skin and his clothes, crumbling with a quiet rustle when he abruptly balls his hands into fists, wracked with an intense tremor.
The writer leans to the side and heaves into the stale air as soon as recognition hits him, emptying his already barren stomach onto the dirty floor, assaulted by the memory of a pungent, coppery taste on his tongue.
His vision swims and he pushes himself up from the chair, clutching at his heart, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his full weight against the desk, desperately attempting to retain his balance.
He feels sick.