Chapter Text
Wake couldn’t remember the pretense here, but at this point in time, in this very moment, it didn’t matter. His fingers curled in Scratch’s hair; Scratch’s hot mouth slid ever further down, and for a glorious second he could feel his dick hit the back of Scratch’s throat. A soft hum vibrated up his shaft and Wake moaned, trying in vain to thrust his hips up against Scratch. Scratch’s hands kept him down, thumbs hooked into the soft crests of his hip bones, pinning him to the cabin bed with a measured, even strength that threatened to bruise with each failed thrust Wake attempted.
Wake came with a choked noise, hands balled in Scratch’s hair; he gasped and panted, rolled his hips a few more times uselessly into Scratch’s firm grip, finally released Scratch’s hair and fell back, arms splayed across the mattress. Scratch leaned up, fixing him with a dark, amused look.
“Jesus, Alan,” he murmured, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you enjoyed that.”
“Fuck off,” Wake replied in kind, breathless.
“You wish.” Scratch fully stood, surveying the sweaty and naked writer in front of him; he smirked, and his hands began to undo the front of the terrible suit trousers he refused to change out of. Wake raised an eyebrow. “It’s my turn.”
They’d been doing this for.. Wake didn’t know how long. Weeks? He had to assume weeks, despite time not quite working properly here in the Dark Place. It was always random, and always at the worst possible moment that Scratch would find him, descending on him in darkness and violence. They’d tell each other stupid lies and half-thought banter between whatever blows they chose that time; fist fight, gun shots, shovel swings, whatever was on hand. They’d rough each other up, they’d yell and laugh and hiss, and it would always end the same way, Wake moaning and arching his back and falling to pieces in Scratch’s hands.
But every time, before it really got hot and heavy, Scratch would bail, smirking. Not that Wake had complained. The awkward, stuffy handjobs - shoved against a wall in some Bright Falls alleyway, the brick rough against Wake’s palms, making him bleed ever so slightly - or random blowjobs - in the dirt, dark and heat of supposed Arizona’s fake desert night, or, less uncomfortably, the scratchy motel comforters, one single light allowed making the shadows loom over Wake as Scratch worked - had actually been a boon for his mental health, letting off steam he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping in his gut.
If Scratch wanted to hand out free orgasms for nothing in return, Wake wasn’t going to stop him. This whole dynamic probably wasn’t truly healthy, but a lot of things that happened in the Dark Place weren’t exactly things he’d admit to in the light of actual reality. It was survival if nothing else, and that was usually enough to stop Wake from feeling guilty.
Wake shifted on the cabin bed, leaned up on his elbows, curious. “I was starting to think you didn’t actually get off.”
Scratch snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I just like watching you make a fucking mess of yourself, Alan.” He pushed the front of his trousers forward, allowing his dick to come free from the fabric; apparently, Scratch didn’t believe in boxers, which amused Wake more than he’d have ever admitted.
In the dimmer than Wake would have preferred light, though, Scratch’s dick didn’t look.. human. In fact, the longer Wake looked at it, the less normal it looked. For starters, it was an entirely inhuman black, less a color than a distinct lack of it, like shadows solidified. The tip was curved up, without a proper head; as Scratch gently stroked it, Wake realized it was ridged, like it had armor plates or scales, and the harder it got, the more they seemed to stand. The entire thing barely fit in Scratch’s fist, as thick as it was, and as Wake watched, it seemed to come apart in the middle, splitting into two. The bottom one was smoother, less ridged, and slightly smaller; together, the two- Wake hesitated to call them dicks -members met near the base with a thick knob that was almost impossible to see in the dark, nestled slightly in the suit trousers still.
“Nice, right?” Scratch murmured as he watched Wake’s face slowly turn rigid with fear and confusion, gaping at whatever the fuck he was looking at.
“What the fuck,” Wake replied, breathless.
“Don’t worry,” Scratch said, louder now. “Turn around, Alan.”
“You can’t be serious. You do realize there’s only so much a human body can handle, right?”
“Oh, shut the hell up,” Scratch rolled his eyes, “and stop being dramatic. You’re not the first human I’ve fucked. Besides, how many times have I gotten you off? You owe me.”
Wake gritted his teeth, looked back down at what passed for genitalia for Scratch. “Aren’t you supposed to … I don’t know, be just like me, or whatever?”
“Yeah, but you’re boring.” Scratch slapped Wake’s thigh. “Cmon. Turn over.”
Wake slowly turned, hissing out breath as Scratch pulled him by the hips closer to the edge of the bed. His mind lurched, trying to simultaneously make sense of the shape of the thing he was supposed to accept into his body and wondering how to talk his way out of it. He heard Scratch move, heard a bottle, heard Scratch pushing more pesky trouser fabric out of his way, and sucked in a breath through his teeth. His thoughts throbbed in time with his body, still cooling from his orgasm.
“Look,” he started, like that was somehow going to help push his thoughts into a line he could regurgitate for Scratch. Scratch touched slick fingers to his body, drew them up his thighs, spread his ass with a hard kneading grasp. “You can’t- you can’t be as rough as you are sometimes, I-“
“When have I been rough on you,” Scratch purred, the voice of a bastard who knows the exact answer to his own question. “I treat you like a king, Alan, how dare you.”
“It’s the size of your fucking fist,” Wake replied with more than a little tinge of fear creeping into his tone. “You can’t just-“
“What?” Scratch stepped forward and used his legs to spread Wake’s further apart, leaned over him like a shadow, grinning lips against Wake’s ear while his hands continued to spread Wake apart, pushing gently into him, slicking his skin. “I can’t just what, Alan?”
Scratch’s finger slipped into him past the first knuckle and Wake gasped, suddenly incapable of speech. He’d had the good grace to lube it, at least, and seemed to be lubing himself too, if the soft slick stroking noise was any indication. He wasn’t rough but he wasn’t gentle, either, as he pushed his finger deeper, probing, curious. Preparing Wake for more.
Wake swallowed, stuttered, moaned instead; Scratch laughed softly in his ear, leaned back up again.
“That’s what I thought,” Scratch murmured, voice nearly a whisper, and positioned himself.
Wake could only assume what was happening to him with each feeling, each sensation. He’d never felt something like this before, without involving those weird toys Alice had talked him into years and years before; he guessed Scratch’s smoother, bottom member was being slowly pushed into him simply from the sheer lack of those horrifying ridges. It was smooth, and hard in a way that human bodies couldn’t be. The curved tip slid into him, smoother than Scratch’s finger had a moment before, the texture and friction indicating a distinct lack of human skin.
At the same time, the top limb of Scratch’s dick was rubbing against Wake’s skin, the underbelly just as slick and inhuman as the dick inside him. It was lubed too, and slid easily as Scratch investigated how deep he could move with his hips. It was deep enough, the two discovered as Wake shuddered and gasped in shock, to nudge Wake’s prostate; that seemed to be exactly what Scratch was looking for, and he chuckled and grabbed Wake’s hips in earnest.
“Brace yourself, writer boy,” he hissed, and, ignoring Wake’s immediate cry of wait, started to rock his hips with a harder, faster rhythm that threatened to hurt Wake with each thrust. Instead, it made him melt. Instead, it drove Scratch deeper, slid, slick, pressed insistently into the nerves that sent vibrant shocks of sensation up Wake’s body.
Wake could only ball his fists into the only sheet left on the bed, shaking and sweating. He moaned into the mattress, lifted his hips, needy, babbling in tongues for more. Tears leaked from his eyes in desperate sensation, the writer overwhelmed.
“That’s it,” Scratch murmured, practically growled, as he thrusted harder and harder into Wake, bent further over him, forehead resting on Wake’s sweaty shoulders.
Against Wake’s skin, the top prong was starting to chafe; it rubbed against him with each thrust and the lube was starting to dry, so Wake noticed when there was enough pre-come to leak down onto his skin again. He himself was starting to harden painfully, more sensation than he was ready to experience, and pushed against the sheet uncomfortably. With Scratch’s weight bent over him, he couldn’t reposition into something that let him touch it, match Scratch’s speed. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his head, he realized he would have given Scratch just about anything for that, and was begrudgingly grateful the bastard wasn’t asking.
And then, just as roughly, Scratch pulled away, his dick coming entirely out of Wake, who spluttered and whined despite himself.
“Wait,” Wake gasped again, panting.
“Wait what, Alan, Jesus.” Scratch sounded equally breathless, and he stood fully behind Wake again, something rustling.
“You’re not- you’re not done, are you?” He realized he was drooling on the sheet. Classy, he thought bitterly. “You didn’t even come.”
“Who said anything about that?” Scratch replied, as helpful as fucking always.
Wake screwed up his face against the mattress, discarded four different curses and tried to figure out the right tack to take. He could barely hear anything, his ears ringing from the overwhelming amount of sensation; he gasped down air, trying to decide where to go from here. Maybe if Scratch was done, he could get off himself in the bathroom and save some fucking pride.
Before he got too far into those thoughts, however, Scratch grabbed him again, positioned his hips and pushed against Wake’s body as before, but now- now Wake could tell it wasn’t one or the other, it was both prongs pushing determinedly at him. He hissed, his body twitching against Scratch.
“You’re joking,” Wake hissed with a hoarse throat.
“Never.”
“That’s not-“
“You said that already. Cmon, Alan, find some new material.” Scratch pushed the fat, thick tips of his combined dicks against Wake, who groaned from the dull pain. “Gentle now,” Scratch said, voice loud and fake-cheery, as he pushed the combined heads into Wake. “Wouldn’t want to hurt you!”
Wake was afraid to move and work more of Scratch into himself before he was ready, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected. He realized, dully, that Scratch had been preparing him for this, and huffed into the mattress, braced himself. The thick head slid past his muscles and properly into him, and Wake shuddered, moaned.
“There you go. You can take it,” Scratch murmured behind him. Wake couldn’t hear it, focused entirely on the slow rocking motion Scratch put him through, driving it ever so slightly deeper with each motion. “Just don’t panic and I won’t rip you apart from the inside, huh?”
Fear stabbed into Wake’s gut, but he couldn’t reply, distracted by the sensations. He quivered against Scratch, felt the shaft getting wider and wider as it went into him. He moaned, tried not to buck, but his hips wanted more. Scratch held him mostly in place, probably having assumed that Wake would roll his hips again. Bastard had probably been watching his habits over all these stupid trysts, figuring out what made Wake lose his mind, just so he’d be ready for this.
Something in him couldn’t be angry. If asked straight, Wake would have a hard time lying that he hadn’t enjoyed it so far. Not to mention, it was more thought than Wake thought Scratch would give him.
The shaft started to get wider than Wake thought he could take, and he hissed, tensed his body; Scratch responded immediately, shushed him and tightened his grip on Wake’s hips, pushed authoritatively. With a shudder, Wake realized Scratch was pushing him through onto one of those ridges, and physically started in fear.
“Wait-“ he spluttered.
“You keep saying that,” Scratch sighed, not waiting.
“I’m not- I don’t- oh,” and Wake couldn’t form words again, as he felt the ridge pushed into him and past the muscle band. It was thick, harder than a body could be, and it strained him into soreness, but it didn’t technically hurt. Scratch pulled slightly against him, and Wake felt it go tight against him from the inside. Like a lock, like a plug. He couldn’t get free if he wished to. Wake shuddered, grasped at the sheets like he had the thought to pull himself away somehow, stuttered through noises that never quite equated to words.
Scratch chuckled in response. “You’re doing great, Alan,” and he started to push in further again, rocked his hips gently. “Keep it up, bestseller.”
Piece by piece, bit by bit, Scratch worked himself into Wake. Wake could hardly breathe, hardly speak, and simply mouthed words against the mattress with each slow, slight thrust. There were, he learned, three ridges on the top of Scratch’s dick, and each worked itself into him painfully before seeming to lock in place, allowing Scratch to keep going. The last was the thickest, more than Wake thought he was physically capable of handling, but it slipped in like the rest.
Scratch paused there. He was trying to act as though he had this all under control, but Wake could feel how hot his skin had become, feel him struggling to breathe. Wake felt him move, felt it as he removed his suit jacket, gasped into the sweat slicked sheet as he adjusted to the feeling of it. He had no idea how long Scratch’s freakish alien dick was, but now it felt like he had ten, eleven inches of something hard and foreign inside him, and his mind could barely understand it.
It should hurt more, he thought to himself. It shouldn’t be physically possible. It shouldn’t feel so good.
Scratch rolled his sleeves up and leaned against Wake again, his hands on either side of the writer’s body, and Wake shuddered.
Scratch started to fuck him in earnest. The last ridge couldn’t come back out, and as each thrust pulled it hard against the inside of Wake’s body, he jostled and cried out. There were still somehow two, three inches that Scratch was using to fuck into him, and he had never felt so .. full. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say anymore, what he was trying to convey, just muttered and moaned and cried out noises without any thought. The tears that had started earlier continued, mixing with the sweat that poured off of him, the saliva he’d accidentally drooled onto the sheet.
Scratch shifted after a few minutes, crawled onto the bed and leaned up and pushed his hand into Wake’s hair, took a hearty fistful, used it to pull Wake up with him. “Easy now,” he murmured into Wake’s ear with a low tone, “almost there.” He steadied Wake with one arm around his chest, while the other hand gripped Wake’s hip as if made of steel.
Wake had no say in the matter, and frankly, he didn’t want one. He leaned against Scratch’s mostly clothed body and panted, boneless, his leaking dick painful and wanting. His hands crept to Scratch’s thighs, pawed gently at the trousers, lost, confused. He couldn’t have said what he wanted, he just didn’t want Scratch to leave him this way, whatever that meant.
Scratch began to thrust again, insistently, long and slow movements that pushed the very edge of his dick against Wake’s body. Wake felt that bulbous knob slap against him, felt it as it pushed slightly into his body, felt it as it worked it’s way deeper, and vaguely he felt fear again. But he couldn’t bring himself to truly get afraid. Scratch fucked him so thoroughly, and it had been so demanding, so overwhelming, that Wake wasn’t actually sure he wanted it to stop. The bastard could probably have worked in a third prong and Wake wouldn’t have complained.
The knob pushed into him, the largest yet, and Wake cried out, a whining moan that drained out of him as he fell back against Scratch again, head lolling on Scratch’s shoulder, fists balled in Scratch’s pants. All thought left him again, awareness entirely wrapped around the massive dick inside of him.
“That’s it,” Scratch murmured again, though Wake barely heard it. “There you go.” The hand on Wake’s hip released and slid forward, taking hold of Wake’s dick. Scratch pumped him, gently at first and then harder and harder as Wake jerked against him, making more discordant noises, the full of Scratch’s massive member inside of him at last. It was so much sensation that Wake couldn’t help but choke out sobs among the moans, his body hardly responding to his own commands any longer. “Let’s see it, Wake,” he heard Scratch say, felt Scratch say in his bones. “Come for me.”
And come he did, hard, body tensed and jumping against Scratch, splattering come across the sheet, down Scratch’s hand. Wake couldn’t help the yell that escaped him, a desperate cry that sounded too loud to him but made Scratch chuckle darkly. He felt the fullness of Scratch inside him twitch and release, felt Scratch follow him down the dark hole of oblivion that was this orgasm, felt him stifle a cry by biting Wake’s shoulder hard.
They panted in tandem, both grappling with different sensations but overwhelmed all the same. After a few sticky seconds of Wake leaned against Scratch, the writer was pushed forward onto his hands, and Wake stumbled slightly, moaning softly.
“What the fuck,” Wake whispered.
“Shush,” Scratch replied. Gently, he began to extract himself from Wake; it seemed that the ridges on his monster dick only raised during erection, because while the knob was still troublesome, the rest of it slid out easily. Wake’s body throbbed, sore, as Scratch pulled out; he moaned under his breath and cried out when Scratch slapped his asscheek once.
“Great show, Alan, loved it,” Scratch said, brisk and businesslike. “Really great stuff.”
“I don’t think my legs work.”
“That’d just be a net positive for me, so.”
Scratch busied himself: cleaned himself up, fixed his sleeves, replaced his jacket, buttoned his trousers. Wake simply watched him, laid out on the bed, panting, slowly returning to a thinking, aware being.
“What the fuck,” he repeated, and Scratch snorted.
“I keep telling you, you’ve really got to work on your vocab, bestseller,” Scratch responded with a disgustingly bright tone. “Same time next week?”