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2.
The door snaps open.
Wake stands from his chair, a shout caught in his throat as Scratch looms in the doorway, fury and fire wreathed in shadow. In three impossible movements he's across the room, grabbing Wake by the lapels and dragging him forward, over the desk. The lamp and typewriter are spared, though some miracle, but everything else on the desk goes flying as Wake struggles with his too-long legs caught on the desk: pens, pages, a coffee cup he doesn't recall having, a flashlight. The pages flutter around them as Scratch lifts Wake up and turns, and, in one smooth inhuman motion, slams him bodily on the floor, leaning over him.
The force pushes all the air out of him, emptying his lungs, and he coughs hard, gasping. He can't breathe. Lungs full of lake water. Scratch doesn't care, is on him, straddling his hips, pinning his hands down on either side of his head, kissing him, biting him, peppering his throat and chin with nips and licks that almost feel romantic, almost loving, if they weren't so violent. So frenzied. So unyielding and painful. It's familiar. Something there, under the surface.
Wake struggles to breathe and remember. Both spurn him in equal measure. He can't get up, can't fight back. Scratch has almost his full weight sat directly on Wake's hips, and his legs scrabble behind Scratch uselessly, unable to get purchase, hitting the legs of the desk and accomplishing nothing besides some pain from the wood as it buffets him in response. Scratch has his hands, gripping his wrists so tightly and pinning them to the floor with such force that Wake is certain he'll bruise in long finger-shaped ribbons, if he hasn't already. Scratch's teeth are on his throat, dragging down his skin, pinching at any flesh he can sink into -and he escalates, biting more at a time, larger bites, hurting him, making him yelp breathlessly- Scratch's teeth are everywhere, all over him, and then in one shocking moment simply around his windpipe.
He pauses. They both do.
For a moment the only noise is Wake breathing, whining, an ever so slightly choked sound of fear and pain and something that almost looks like need as he struggles uselessly against Scratch. Who laughs, just a little chuckle, almost reassuring, and bites down. Tears away, in one fluid motion, pulling Wake's throat open like a mad dog. Sick wet popping noises reverberate around Wake's head as parts of him that were never supposed to open are laid bare, shattered into one another, ripped from him. Physically pulled. The shock of feeling his body parts give way under Scratch's teeth, feeling them pulled from him, shorn off him. It’s a sensation he can’t make sense of, can’t understand.
Blood. Blood everywhere, gushing out of him, from ruined veins and his open, gaping mouth. Splattering around him, covering pages and his suit and Scratch. Wake's too shocked to feel the pain, gasping again as best he can with his ruined throat. He sounds foreign to his own ears, as he gurgles under Scratch. He can hear his feet clattering against the floorboards, can feel how useless his body is suddenly, like his throat was the single load-bearing stud of this shambling house of his. Scratch stares down, smiling, wild. Triumphant. Covered in his blood, in their blood. He smiles so wide, too many bloody teeth immediately visible as Wake coughs and drowns in himself. He can’t stop staring at the gore still in Scratch's mouth, chunks of flesh he won't let go of, even as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, like that will help. Smearing blood everywhere. Across his arm, his suit, his face. Wake's vaguely aware he can feel Scratch's dick pressing hard against his midsection as his body goes numb in one cold shock.
He coughs again, weakly, no air behind it. He tries to speak and only gurgles; he drowns. He dies.
3.
He shocks awake.
Back again, back in the room. Awake, alive, just like every fucking time. He's still in the chair, terribly uncomfortable after the shock of nonexistence, however temporary. The door is still open but the pages are in order, stacked neatly save only for those he's been feverishly marking up on the desk. Pen edits scratched out with inky claws.
Wake swallows hard, unsure what happened, gulping down too much air; his hand flies to his throat, pushes it against it as if it might crumple under his touch, tries to breathe normally. Nothing's wrong, nothing's gone. It's all in one piece again. Not even blood on his hands, on his suit. He stands, stumbles back, the chair clattering to the ground, panic threatening to overwhelm him.
Scratch is waiting there, behind him. A hand on his shoulder and Wake tries to grab at Scratch, turn, hit him, hiss in his face, fucking anything. He tries to do fucking anything. Tries to fight any way he can. But Scratch is faster. Stronger. More stable, as Wake's legs are refusing to work when he tells them to, refusing to kick or stand or flee.
Scratch grabs him by the lapels again, pulls him close. Smiles wide again. No gore, no blood, but still too many teeth. He deftly turns and slams Wake against the wall behind them, hard, pushing all the air in his lungs back out. Wake huffs from the force, staring with wild eyes into Scratch's bloodless face, trying to make sense of it. Was it a dream? Did it really happen? Did Scratch really- did he- has he-
Scratch stabs him.
Splotches of darkness appear in Wake's vision with the shock of it, the surprise. The knife is so sharp he doesn't feel pain at first; he's distracted by the way he can hear the knife go through him, hit the back of the wall and stab the wood with a soft thunk. They stare into each other's eyes: Scratch's wide and wild, blown out, pupils the size of fucking dinner plates; Wake's, large and confused, in pain, looking for answers, welling with scared tears. The pain is real, but it isn't. Another thing he can’t fucking make sense of.
The knife sits there in his gut for a moment before Scratch pulls it out and stabs him again, and again, and again; three, four times, in the chest and gut, with such force he's hitting the wood in the wall each time, sending tremors through each of Wake's bones. It hurts, and there's blood, arcing out in gorgeous red ribbons as Scratch pulls the knife out and stabs down again, but it isn't real. It's far away, strange, unexplained. Real, and not real.
Their mouths crash together, Scratch biting at his bottom lip, as the pain turns into an ocean of waves in Wake's head, body torn in ways that won't, can't, don't matter. They can't matter here. He can't die, and he can't truly be hurt, not in any way that matters. He can only suffer, for the story, for the themes, for the symbolism, and then wake up again. Another dream.
Scratch isn't the only one hard this time. Wake tries to roll his hips against the leg Scratch has slid between his, desperate for more physicality; he tries to paw at Scratch, anywhere he can reach. Hands down his chest, down his throat as they bite at each other's lips- as they kiss, if it can be called kissing. But the wounds overwhelm Wake's mind, and he finds himself gasping into the too-deep kisses, wonders if his lungs are filling with blood or lake water. Or both. They're the same thing, anyways. Blood, lake water, darkness, ink. Words and stories. His own mind. He's drowning again. Always drowning, as long as he could remember. Of whatever it was he did remember.
Too much for one man to bear.
Gurgling, blood on his lips, blood on Scratch's lips, Scratch's tongue. That wide, wide, smile. Wake tries to speak again. It’s all so familiar. Something in him thinks it’s funny. He wonders if Scratch is in on the joke.
His legs give out, and he falls.
4.
Shocks awake again.
Back into his body, sitting in the chair. Always fucking sitting in the chair. Why did it always start here again, even when he didn't die here? He gasps as he comes to, loudly, remembering the pain, the feeling of the cuts, the gaping holes in his body. He looks up from the desk, and the door is open. Scratch is there, staring at him intensely. Again: no blood, no gore. Wake can't stop his mind from wondering if it really happened, even though he's sure it did. Can still feel the echoes of the knife in his body, of the leg between his pushing up against him. He feels himself flush, feels his face get hot when Scratch starts to move towards him, slowly, with an intent that washes over Wake in dark waves.
He wants to push it further. He wants to keep going.
Wake feels the same way.
Wake stands, shaking, and moves forward too, slowly, so slowly. Something in the feeling Scratch is giving him is intoxicating, and he wants to explore it. This violent dance of theirs, faster than ever, exasperated by something he can't name. They meet in front of the desk, both moving faster as they get close, reaching for each other; their mouths collide in open approximations of kisses, hands gripping into each other's clothes.
Scratch is teeth and tongue and violence, in every single kiss. He tries to dominate Wake through each connection they make; as they fumble with each other, as they reach for each other, as they taste each other, he seems to need to be the winner of it somehow. Wake raises his hands to cup Scratch's face, maybe calm him, bring their kisses to something he can understand, but Scratch won't have it, won't let Wake have any creature comfort. He bats the hands away with angry palms that pull at Wake's hair, hard; that grip at his throat and chin, trying to keep him still, hold his jaw in place, trying to keep him breathless. Keep him drowning. He grips Wake's throat so tightly that for a moment he can't breathe, and he tries to pull away, gasping. Scratch just follows him, forcing him back against the desk. He's greedy and impatient, pulling at Wake's clothes to get him closer and then shoving his own body against Wake's to press them together so tightly Wake wonders if Scratch is trying to shove the air out of him so he can remove any space between them, combine them into one entity.
Right now, he's not sure it sounds so bad.
He can't breathe, the harder Scratch pushes against him, rolling hips and scratching at his skin. He's drowning, drowning in Scratch, his mouth, his taste, his touch. The strange heat of his skin, something outside of the cold emptiness of the Dark Place and yet so familiar. Forced to buckle under him until Wake finds that he's fully seated on the desk now, pushed back against it until he's practically in the center of the damn thing, feet entirely off the floor. The kisses are so rapid and so all encompassing that he feels light-headed, unable to place how he got where he is, but not giving so much of a fuck about it.
Scratch pulls away from Wake. He does it like he's done everything else: violently. Harsh teeth wrapped around Wake's bottom lip, pulling until it slides out of his grasp with a wet pop and Wake hisses in pain, the taste of blood on his breath. They're both panting, both disheveled and flushed, but Scratch doesn't seem to notice his own exhaustion, if it even touches him. He stares at Wake for only a second before he's already moving again, reaching around Wake, shoving everything but the writer and the stack of pages from the desk. The light bounces wildly as it hits the floor; the typewriter clatters loudly but is instantly forgotten.
Wake reaches for Scratch and they collide again, close, Wake trying to reach for anything Scratch will give him. Scratch turning Wake where he sits, and the writer simply lets it happen. He doesn't care, so long as Scratch is there, and Scratch is there until he isn't, pushing Wake down and away, hard. Like a curse, a denouncement. It stings more than the slam onto the pages, onto the desk. Wake hits the pages, dead in the center of his shoulders; he coughs out air and goes limp, his head lolling down off the edge of the desk. The pages only move for a moment before settling into their new place as part of his body, some hard concrete he was tied to, or a new lump of bone, attached to his shoulders in a way he couldn't resolve. Immovable, a simple fact.
Wake settles there for a moment, confused, gasping. Trying to recover his bearings. He's aware of footsteps: Scratch walking around the desk, his hand still fully in the center of Wake's chest, keeping him down as though expecting Wake to fight; he stops only when he stands in front of Wake's face, pulling his hand slowly up Wake's chest, his throat, his cheek. Like he'd never touched Wake before, like he was marveling at the new object he'd just received for the first time. Worshiping a holy object.
Wake, panting, swallows hard despite his head being upside down. The blood is starting to rush into his head, like ink seeping into his skull, making him feel a little woozy, his arms splayed out around him, his legs forgotten. The lack of proper lighting makes it hard to see Scratch properly, but vaguely he was aware that Scratch is smiling, watching him reverently, breathing hard. Wake tries to reach for Scratch but his arms are gently pushed back down, left to hang at his sides.
He acquiesces. He’s too tired to keep fucking fighting it. If Scratch wants him to wait, he’ll wait, obediently. Wake settles for watching the hand in front of his face as Scratch grips himself through his suit trousers. It's clear Scratch is already at least half hard, and he massages himself through the fabric of his pants in such a slow, tantalizingly sensual way that Wake is transfixed. He wishes he could reach out, touch Scratch, feel for himself just how hard his dark double is. Scratch toys with himself for a while longer, clearly enjoying watching the way Wake stares at him, still panting, moaning under his breath despite himself. Desperate. Needy. How obvious it is that Wake wants him, on his tongue, in his mouth, down his throat. Inside of him. Together. Made into one, somehow, any way he can achieve it. Scratch drags short fingernails down Wake's throat, seems to enjoy the attention, the affection. The need in Wake's very blood.
When Scratch finally unzips his trousers, he does it so slowly that Wake feels as though his heart is going to explode from sheer want. He can barely breathe, his heart pushing all the air from his lungs as it beats in his chest, his head, his throat. His mouth. He wants to present it to Scratch like a fucking trophy, give him anything he asks for, as long as the beat is silenced. There's too much here, in the Dark Place, but this is something he can understand, somehow: them, together. Him, Scratch, them. One creature, one monster.
Perhaps it's what he's deserved, what he's always deserved, and if he just reaches out and takes it...
Scratch pulls his now fully hard dick from the fabric, stroking it slowly. His other hand teases at the buttons on Wake's chest, his cheeks, his lips. Thumbs Wake's mouth open, pushing his fingers in roughly, stroking down Wake's tongue, working his mouth open wider and wider. He spreads more saliva across Wake's mouth and lips, up his chin, down his throat... trailing bits of the writer across himself. It drives Wake mad. His face flushes more than it already was, and he starts to squirm ever so slightly, here on the altar of his writing. Trapped like a moth under the pin of Scratch.
Scratch watches this with no small amount of approval. He's practically purring, muttering something inhuman under his breath that Wake takes as positive reinforcement. His voice is dark, rolling, wreathed in shadow and sex. Wake moans.
"So good for me," Scratch whispers, and Wake can hear it perfectly, under all that darkness. Their voice, their shared sound. "Good boy. Good boy. All mine."
All his. Wake internalizes and accepts this idea. Closes his eyes, though that doesn't stop his awareness of the way Scratch is moving. He can sense Scratch, his presence, his body, his form. He knows his dark presence the way he knows his own mind. If he does. If he can, anyways. He thinks he does, in this moment, and that is enough; he lets go of the uncertainty and relaxes into it. Scratch is thumbing his throat, pressing against that delicate windpipe he'd destroyed all those dreams ago. So many loops ago. Or just the last loop? It doesn't matter now. Now, Wake is hale and whole and swallows against Scratch's touch, and isn't shocked or startled when he tastes the tip of Scratch's dick against his outstretched tongue, panting for it. Desperate, still. He whines, a short soft noise only for Scratch, and Scratch obliges, pushes his dick further into Wake's mouth, slides it across his tongue.
He can only give head so well when he can't use his hands, but that doesn't stop Wake from giving it his all: sucking, tonguing up and down Scratch's length, swallowing and humming against him. Letting Scratch push himself in, further and further, until he hits the back of Wake's throat, and then even further still, coaxing it past a lax gag reflex that doesn't need to exist here and into his throat. Wake is still, focusing, trying to make sure he's breathing enough not to literally choke and die on his dark double's dick. He feels Scratch's hand on his throat, pressing down, as though trying to feel himself through it, push through the meat and thrust back into his own hand. Wake wonders if he's trying to kill him again, decides he's had worse deaths and lets that thought go with the rest of them, floating away on his body's rising tide of heat, of want, of need and desperation and so, so much loneliness.
Wake doesn't open his eyes when Scratch starts thrusting harder into his mouth. He relaxes and allows as much as he can, gagging only once or twice, sucking on Scratch's dick like it's the one thing that's going to save his life. He can hear himself making awful little moaning noises that disappear under the wet slick sound of Scratch fucking his face, lets go of the shame. He can feel himself drooling, spit and sweat and precum all leaking down his face, down his cheeks, into his hair. God, he wishes he could touch himself. He's so hard it's overriding every other thought, fighting against the strange calm that's resting in his chest. Being here, being used, being Scratch's pretty little fucktoy is enough in this moment, and he doesn't care.
Scratch removes his palm from Wake's throat, his thrusting slowing for a moment, and then he leans heavily over Wake, one arm leaning on the desk to keep himself steady as his hips slowly push back and forth into Wake, every inch of him consumed by the writer, the other hand unbuttoning Wake's shirt. He toys with Wake's chest, teasing and plucking at his hard nipples, scratching little trails down his belly and squeezing at his tits. Wake moans, writhes ever so slightly, as much as he can pinned like this, trapped under Scratch, and for a moment he hopes he's going to get sucked off too, that Scratch will climb onto the desk and swallow him whole, but it doesn't happen.
Instead, a sharp point touches the center of his chest.
Immediately, several things become very clear in Wake's mind. Scratch has his knife still, and Scratch is going to use it, and Scratch IS going to kill him. There's a wretched half second of fear that claws into Wake's gut, but he's too deep into the gentle ocean of belonging to Scratch, taking him and being used by him, that he doesn't take it, doesn't use it to fight. He decides to be the perfect lamb, sacrificed by a priest that loves him so fucking much, that wants him to taste the universe before his death, feel how much he's wanted and needed by the hands that will end his life. He grips the sides of the desk, bracing himself for the first cut, and it slides into his chest so slowly that he moans with it, long and low around Scratch's dick. It doesn't feel like pain; it's sweet relief, more targeted and so much more sexual than simply being fucked. He feels as though Scratch is seeing him, Scratch is touching him, as the knife draws up and out, ever so slowly. Down and in again. Reverently, sweetly.
Another cut, and another, and with each cut Scratch's thrusting is a little more frenzied, more excited, more to bear, but Wake bears it willingly. Gratefully, even. Sucking and moaning and writhing for his priest. He can feel the knife go as deeply as the manuscript in his back, into his pages, the pages he'd written with Scratch, for Scratch- as Scratch? It's all blending together. Scratch cuts, faster and faster, stabbing into Wake's chest with a purpose, and thrusts harder and harder into Wake's throat, and Wake moans and bucks and can feel his tears mingling in his hair, his blood spilling out into his suit jacket, down his pages, down the desk. Seeping into the manuscript, washing away the ink. Black spirals out from him in little bits as more and more blood pours from him, a trickle to a flood. Hears it, dripping onto the floor, as Scratch drops the knife on the ground and reaches into Wake's chest. He pulls and twists and Wake's heart comes free, out of his chest, into Scratch's hand.
There's a moment of silence as Scratch pants, holding the heart aloft; Wake is vaguely aware of blood dripping onto himself, his own heart spilling what little it had left onto it's ruined home. There's a soft squelching noise, the quiet pops of chambers being torn open, and Wake's heart lands onto the desk beside his head, a wet thud, still bleeding ever so slightly. Wake doesn't see the bite taken out of it, eyes still closed against Scratch's skin as he chokes on his own blood, as his body judders from the mortal wound, as Scratch cums into his throat, but he can hear Scratch moaning around the mouthful, feel Scratch's bloody hand in his hair, hear the thick way Scratch swallows around what was once his.
Wake feels satisfied, and his world goes black.
5.
Awake again.
Less shocking than before, somehow. Wake stares into the pages on the desk, breathing heavily, trying to slow his heart down, reliving the feeling of his own death. Despite how real it felt, how much gore there was, the way his body had been opened for Scratch's use, his pleasure, his consumption. Now, his chest is whole again. His heart is there. No proof left of the offering, the ritual. No blood, no stains, no proof it was taken. He laughs softly at the idea. His heart, taken.
The door is half closed, as though Scratch had opened it, peeked in, found him missing and left. He swallows and shifts, stands up, back to life. Back to this hell, his personal life-sized phantasmagoria.
He breathes, and considers the story, staring back down at the pages. The thoughts within. The way it twists and turns, the way it delves deeper and darker than most of his work before. Before, he was a hack, the ideas he’d wished he could commit to becoming just feather soft brushes against the true horror beneath, ignorant of what they could really be, mean, accomplish. Now, he was more refined, more confined by his genres but with a sharper focus. A scalpel, slicing through writhing flesh to find the truth. He reaches out to touch the pages, look at them, read the text and sink into the story, but past the first few the manuscript is empty. Wiped clean, like some great flood had come and pulled all the words away. There were small traces, here and there, on the pages further down, smeared bits of ink. Some faded letters, splotched as though the page had been soaking wet, but it looks pristine, brand new, untouched. He touches the page, brushes the empty half-formed words with his fingertip as though it might reveal the rest of the sentence. Nothing.
Maybe there was proof of the ritual, after all. But what did this ritual accomplish, exactly? A heart for the story? For Scratch? He's not sure.
There's something just there, on the tip of his tongue.
The door creaks, and Wake looks up, sees Scratch. He seems hesitant, at first, as though he can sense the change. As though he knows something has gone wrong, something is missing. But he struts forward like he has violence in mind, oozing the same confidence and sex as always. Wake leans against the desk and braces himself for whatever Scratch has planned, but Scratch simply leans against the desk in the same way, mirroring him, putting his face closer to Wake's. He smiles slowly, something strange and not unkind, and Wake follows suit. Both of them, waiting, watching, measuring the other up.
Wake makes the first move, slowly leaning even closer, pushing his cheek against Scratch's. Scratch obliges, rubs his cheek on Wake's and pulls back. They kiss, softly at first, and then escalating into heavy, desperate motions: Scratch bites at him, and Wake bites back, sucking at his dark double's bottom lip, moaning into his mouth. Wake pushes away from the desk to move closer to Scratch, but they're both unwilling to be without the other for a moment longer than they need to, and reach for each other as Wake stumbles around the desk. Scratch pushes him against it, pins his hips there, and lets Wake take his face into his hands, kissing him softly, hungrily. Lovingly.
It's strange and new, but neither of them are complaining. Something deep has been realized between them both, something they're not going to waste words on describing when there's so much more they could do. Scratch breaks away from Wake's mouth to pepper his throat with bites and licks and sucking kisses that sting just a little, nipping at his jawline, his earlobe. Wake pants in his ear, tangles his fingers into Scratch's hair and just lets himself feel it. As the sensations continue, something unlocks in his head: a light, perhaps, or something else, something worse, breaking the dam away from what he has inside of him. Words, visions, people and places, things to be used all flood into his subconscious. He knows where they go, what they mean. He knows what he needs to do.
"I know where the story needs to go," he murmurs into Scratch's ear, his hands buried in Scratch's hair, as Scratch pulls at him and pushes him against the desk, pulls the buttons of his shirt open to suck at more of his chest, bruising anything he can get his teeth around. "I know what we have to write next."
"Sure," Scratch hisses into his skin. "In a minute."
They sink to the ground together, pushing away from the desk so they have more room, pulling at each other's clothing impatiently. Wake lets Scratch push his suit jacket back and off his shoulders, throwing it off when it annoys him, but Wake is more vicious this time, more focused; he pushes Scratch down, crawls over his dark double. He has Scratch's shirt open and shoved out of his way, effectively pinning Scratch's arms down with the fabric as he leans over Scratch, biting and sucking at Scratch's chest - all before Scratch can stop him.
He can remember the sacrifice, the last loops of shocking violence, the way Scratch touched him before. It was all building on itself, leading to something bigger, he could feel it in his fingertips. He mirrors those encounters, mirrors rubbing his thumb over Scratch's bottom lip, pushing his fingers into Scratch's mouth. Scratch moans and sucks at him, nips at his fingers, and tries to reach for Wake, but Wake pulls away his hand. Pulls his fingers out of Scratch's mouth with a loud pop, bats his hand away.
"Let me," he murmurs, but it's more out of annoyance than an order or offer. He pulls at Scratch's belt impatiently, undoing it with shaking fingers and opening his trousers just a little, enough to push the hem down to reveal Scratch's hip bones. Just like his. He knows how they feel, when he presses his thumbs roughly into them, rubbing little circles into them, and Scratch squirms and moans as expected, trying to buck up under Wake, where he's straddling Scratch's body. Scratch can't get any purchase, any upper hand here, and he seems to be floundering in the sensation of being overwhelmed. He squirms and moans, paws at Wake, tries to get any form of upper hand but as soon as Wake stops him, he gives up. Malleable.
Scared, if Wake didn't know any better.
Scratch seems to let himself sink into the experience of being overpowered, and lets Wake work. When he's allowed to snake his fingers up Wake's arms and hold onto him, he takes it, but goes no further, clinging to Wake in a way that seems as though he might be drowning and Wake's the only branch to hold onto in the rush of emotions, feelings, experiences. He bucks and moans as Wake teases him mercilessly, plucking at his nipples, pushing his thumbs into his hips and thighs, pulling more and more of his clothing off.
Wake's not sure he's ever seen Scratch fully naked. Usually when they fuck, Wake loses more clothing than Scratch does. But for some reason, it feels right, now, to be the one still mostly clothed, to be pushing into and teasing and picking at the naked one, to be the one in control. And Scratch is falling to pieces so beautifully: he looks more human, for once, the Darkness that usually wreathes his face muted, his eyes wide and bright, almost scared; his face is flushed, sweaty; he bites at his lips with need, with desperation, over and over, making them thick and red and raw. Wake wants to consume him. Be him, become him, meld them together. Rip those fucking lips off his face and see the teeth underneath, see the true monster in his flesh.
When he starts to unbuckle his own belt, Scratch is writhing below him like a virgin. His fingers grip and release, on Wake's sleeve, against the floor, above his head, as though he's looking for something to hold onto as Wake tries to drown him. He mewls when Wake pushes his half-hard dick against Scratch's own, painfully throbbing dick, leaking against his hip, woefully untouched; he squirms and moans, a deep, mournful noise, arches his back as Wake takes them both in his hand, as he moves his hips ever so slightly, rubs them together and smears Scratch's precum against himself.
"Look at you," Wake murmurs, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. "Look at you. So pretty. All mine."
Scratch whines and lifts his hips. He wants more, more of Wake's skin on him, more of Wake touching him, pumping him, fucking him. Wake can tell, feel it in his body, the way he's trying so desperately to pull Wake closer. He toys with Scratch more, pushes his legs apart just a little too wide, presses himself against Scratch's ass. He teases his dark double, watches tears rise in his eyes as he reaches a point of almost being too overwhelmed to function, to think.
"Fuck you," Scratch hisses, and the lights in the room flicker. "Get on with it."
"Let me," Wake repeats. "Let me." Do this? Have this, have you? Do it my way? He doesn't know where he's going with that sentence, but Scratch seems to understand, and growls, head lolling back against the wood, moaning out through a choked cry.
"Pleeease," Scratch whines, tries to buck into Wake's hand, Wake's hip, anything. Anything. Wake pins his hips down with one hand, the other gently toying with Scratch's hole, pushing ever so slightly into him. "Oh," Scratch breathes, and covers his face with his arms, draping them over himself as though he can stop Wake from seeing how fucked up he is from all of this, how close he is to outright weeping, how desperately red his face has become. Embarrassment, maybe, or humiliation.
The taste of it is so sweet on Wake's tongue he feels he might drown on it. Like if he drinks too deeply, it will fill him so completely, he won't be able to breathe. Lungs full of lake water. Blood and ink. The same thing on his tongue from Scratch's biting kisses, from biting the inside of his own cheek so hard he can taste himself, because he's trying to take it slow, but God he just wants to tear Scratch to pieces. Fuck him so hard and so fast that he shakes apart, becomes shards of bone and blood, bits of writing on the page. Inspiration and madness, wrapped in one. He tries to work Scratch open slowly, tries to pace himself, but he nudges Scratch's prostrate and his double jerks, as though he'll cum on the spot. He can't take it. He can't wait.
Wake pushes in, hard, fast, one quick motion that shocks Scratch and makes him gasp and twitch, his arms coming off his face for just a moment to show the tear-streaked eyes beneath. The look of anguish on his face just tips Wake further the edge and he grabs at Scratch's arms, pulls his hands down, holds his wrists against the floorboards so hard he's sure Scratch will have fingers bruised into him, and he fucks him, as deep as he can, as hard as he can, watching his face. Scratch judders and moans, cries out in pain and need and delight, tries to roll his hips into Wake; the pace is too fast, Wake's angle on him too strange, and he can do nothing but lay there and let Wake fuck him harder and harder, growling under his breath. Wake leans closer to Scratch, gets as close as he can to his double's face, and when they kiss their teeth clash and he can tell he's gotten some of his blood on Scratch's lips, in Scratch's mouth.
It's harsh and fast and much, much too fucking much, and when Scratch comes, he howls, a broken sob, trying to pull his wrists away from Wake to no avail. Wake fucks him through it and keeps fucking him, keeps the bruising pace until he tips over the edge too, biting down into Scratch's shoulder as he comes, tasting the inky salt of his double's blood. They pant in tandem, both of them breathless and sweaty, though Scratch is still very softly shaking from sobs that he can't bring himself to voice, and Wake's head is ringing so loudly he can barely hear anyways. There's something here, in the dark of the water, in the shadows between them. Their mirror images. He can't name it. He can just taste it, feel it between them, something strange and out of focus. Like an echo. A black sunspot on his vision.
Wake pulls up, off of Scratch, and looms over his dark double, thumbing those red, raw lips, the tears on his face. He hums appreciatively, and wonders if this is what he looks like, when Scratch fucks him to pieces. He hopes so. It's lovely to look at, to soak in: red watery eyes, making the blue of his irises seem almost ghostly; hair everywhere, bottom lip wobbling. He wants more. Needs more. Wonders how to get it, how to get this more often. He glances over at Scratch's discarded clothes, pulling out of his double- who moans deliciously, curling up on himself, finally able to move now that Wake had released him- and notices the knife attached to his belt. Smart, keeping a weapon on him. And foolish. Wake stands and redoes his belt buckle, zips up his pants, slicks back his hair. Picks up the knife, watches as Scratch rolls onto his hands and knees and leans up, shivering.
"Fucking cold in here," Scratch is muttering, and his voice sounds entirely normal, the Darkness gone. Wake snorts, steps to him, pulls his head back so far he can look down into Scratch’s face.
"It really is," Wake says, looking down into his wide eyes, and slits his double's throat.
Blood pours out of Scratch, down his chest, down his legs, across the wood of the floor. So fast. So much faster than he thought it would be. Wake stands and breathes, watches him crumple, lifeless, breathing hard. The lake, the ocean of Scratch's dark blood, too dark and yet red enough to recognize. Something shimmers in it, in the water, in the ink. He leans down, touching it ever so slightly, smearing the blood across his face. Across his neck. His beard, his throat. Something's missing. He can't be here, alone, without Scratch.
He raises the blade again, and after a moment of uncertainty, slits his own throat to match, as deep as he can get it. Feels the knife hit bone. He falls to the ground, choking on himself again, drowning in himself. Like being home.
When he dies, he stares into Scratch's eyes, and smiles.
6.
Awake. It isn’t shocking anymore.
This time, he knows where he’s going.
Wake comes to slowly, lifts his head and looks around the room. A desk, a stack of paper, a typewriter, a lamp. It's all the same as before, but it feels fundamentally different. The same room, shifted just to the left. He thinks on the last loop, thinks about watching Scratch die, watching the look on his face as Wake fucked him, watching him fall to pieces. Wake's starting to understand what needs to happen. Less of the manuscript is present now, he finds when he looks in the pages, spreads them across his desk like a fan, trying to find anything of himself left behind in them. All blank, all smeared ever so slightly with ink, with blood, with water. He doesn't know if there’s a difference between them all. But he knows where he is, now. He knows who he is. He thinks, anyways. It's all loops, here. Everything crashing back in on itself. Waves and mirrors, echoes. The solemnity of what he sees as the next step fills his chest, and he doesn't want to go forward, but he thinks it's the only thing he can do. The only choice he has left.
A good artist will do anything for their art, or so he's told. Isn't it all for the work, anyways? The blood, sweat and tears all coming together into one perfect manuscript? He thinks about Casey complaining about it, snorts, and stands. Picks up his chair, walks towards the door. It's slightly open, less than before, but he knows Scratch is coming soon. He has to be ready. He stands beside the door, holding the wooden chair in his hands.
It doesn't take long. The door swings open and Scratch hesitates in the doorway, surprised not to see Wake at the desk. He steps forward, one step, another, just past the door, before Wake bumps the door out of his way and slams the chair over Scratch's head from behind.
The chair shatters into wooden pieces, covers Scratch in debris, splinters scattering wildly everywhere. He turns, snarling, the Darkness flaring in his just enough that his eyes look like murderous pits of oil. His hands are claws, bent in rage, and his arm is reaching towards where Wake knows there's a knife on his belt. There's a chair leg in each of Wake's hands and he drops one, tackling Scratch to stop him from reaching the knife; they land beside the door, which slams shut as they fight, one of them kicking it closed in the scuffle. They're both spitting and hissing at each other, shouting curses, hitting each other with furious fists and Wake's single chair leg.
Scratch tries to snarl something but it's lost in rage, in the flurry of blows, in Wake's roar. He bludgeons Scratch's head, past Scratch's arms until he's battered them away, until there's blood shooting up between them, until the crunch of bones becomes a wet, sticky noise more like a wet gravel path, until the leg is shattered in pieces, bloody red. Unrecognizable. Until Scratch stops moving, is just a corpse Wake is beating over and over again.
It takes him too long to realize his quarry is dead. Panting, Wake drops what's left of the chair leg, ignoring the sick sticky thump it makes instead of any recognizable wooden noise, and pushes his hair out of his face with a blood-soaked hand, accidentally slicking it back with the gore. He's throbbing hard, his dick straining against his trousers so hard that he feels like it's hurt, and, groaning with the effort of its overwhelming overstimulation, he unbuckles his belt, pulls it free from its cloth prison. He almost can't stroke it fast enough to satisfy him, leaning over Scratch's unrecognizable face, moaning and rolling his hips against Scratch's unmoving torso. He cums so hard it makes him cry out, rolling through the waves against his sticky palm, panting like a dog, tongue out and all.
Shaking, Wake stands. He puts himself back in order, fixing his suit, his trousers, slicking his hair back again. Shakes out his arms, trying to regain his stability. He wobbles over Scratch's form, rolls it gently to the side to retrieve the knife and move him from the doorway, and straps it to his belt. He stands and steps to the door, breathing out slowly, and opens it. He can't open it all the way, because Scratch is still in the way, but it's fine. This is his house. He knows where he is. He just wants to take a look. Wake looks down at Scratch's form, making sure it's not going to move, and leans out of the door.
Nothing. Nothing but darkness. Something about this confuses him. He's not sure what he was looking for, or what he expected, but he's sure it would've been different. Some revelation revealed, some light guiding him to the next path. Wake cocks his head, leaning out of the door and looking around- nope, still just Darkness. Everywhere. Far as his eyes can see. Biting his lip, he considers this. It feels like a trap, or a letdown, or something. He's not sure. He's beyond disappointed. He's almost infuriated, his breath threatening to rise again. He can feel the rage warming his chest, filling him like water. Lungs full of lake water. Will he ever stop drowning? He hates it. He hates all of it, this fucking nightmare, this fucking loop, the deaths and sex and violence, the blood and pain. He and Scratch at each other's throats, endlessly. Hunting one another.
Wake steps out of the door, shouting something into the void of the Dark. It doesn't hear him, doesn't care. But behind him, Scratch's corpse rolls, no longer held on it’s side by the door or Wake’s legs, and the corpse closes the door with a sudden, shocking slam. It scares Wake, who turns, staring at the silent white door with wild eyes. No light. No weapon, save for Scratch's stupid knife. Nothing but Darkness and this fucking door.
1.
He seethes in the dark, staring at the door.
There was something, some truth he was chasing, and now he feels as though the door's been closed on his ability to plumb its depths, his understanding of himself, the story, this place. He stares at the door and for a moment, he's silent. But then he screams. Overwhelmed by the churning cauldron in his chest, his head. He screams and pounds on the door, beating it with his fists, lets all the rage and terror and sadness in him spill out. It tears his throat to shreds to furiously releases the pressure building behind his eyes in such a way, but he doesn’t give a shit. No one can fucking hear him anyways. He kicks the door savagely once, feels it threaten to give out under his foot, and steps back, unsettled for a moment, breathing hard.
There's Darkness in his teeth. He can feel it snaking around his fingers, into his hair, around his body. He looks down, and despite the lack of light, the lack of reality, the lack of anything but this goddamn door, he can see perfectly. He can watch it sliding over his skin, soaking into him. He's never been in the pure unadulterated Dark for this long, in the waves of the ocean that isn't an ocean, under the lake that's not a lake. It's snug around him, tight and warm and familiar. Like home. Like the answer, maybe. He thinks. Somewhere in there, maybe. Somewhere in the dark. But it's missing a piece, missing something he can't quite put his finger on.
He looks up, back at the door. There's blood on his tongue, the taste of a heart in his mouth. A sacrifice, laid in the maw of some great beast.
Maybe he isn't lost, after all. He knows who he is. Where he belongs.
But he's just one half, one side of the equation. The darkness that can't be fully understood without the light. Behind that door, even now, that fucking writer is writing, trying to escape him, their place here, their existence. He wishes he could just... show it to him. How it makes him feel. What it makes him into. What he'd do to keep them there.
He struts to the door. He knows what the next step is.
2.
Scratch kicks the door with all his might.
The door snaps open, Wake standing at the desk, staring at him with wild eyes. Right where he should be.