Chapter Text
Alan took a final sip of his drink and contemplated the empty glass. Like a rubber band being snapped, he jolted out of his not-quite-drunken stupor. Where the hell was he? How did he get here? His eyes scanned the room. He appeared to be in some kind of dive bar, that much was evident. Colourful, bawdy lights illuminated the cramped room, revealing tacky patterned wallpaper and a seating area spattered with an eclectic collection of miscellaneous furniture. The room was hazy, and Alan imagined whisps of cigarette smoke coiling up into the air.
An eerie uncanniness permeated the room, as if it was conjured up by the collective imagination of what a grimy dive bar might look like, but something was missing. The patrons. The place was completely empty. No hosts on the other end of the smoke, no clinking glasses or late-night din and chatter. Just eerie stillness, the kind of loneliness that sets your nerves on edge and fills your stomach with dread. The kind of loneliness that Alan had experienced for countless years.
Unsatisfied with lack of answers, Alan turned back to the bar. He placed his hand on the grimy bartop, felt the years of service it had been through. He looked up at the rows of bottles adorning the shelves, enough alcohol to fill a pool and then some. Alan’s head spinned at the thought, his hand instinctively reaching towards his glass and being instantly disappointed when he realized it was empty. Was this still the dark place? Where were the shadows? What happened to his manuscript? Was this an escape attempt, or had he finally given up?
Maybe this was purgatory. It seemed fitting that it was a bar. A place that had brought him immeasurable pleasure and pain. Fuck. He sighed, suddenly weighed down by the world. If he was going to figure this out, he was going to need a drink.
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After fixing himself a couple more Old Fashioneds, Alan began to feel more at ease. No longer driven by pure anxiety and panic, he settled down on one of the tackier couches in the lounge and relaxed, once more trying to get his bearings.
He’d never been here before, that much he knew. A place like this would be memorable, no matter how many bars he’d frequented in his life before the dark place. His heart twinged suddenly. He thought of all his late night parties on book tours, hours spent downing free shots and dancing with strangers who clung to his fame like moths to a flame. Alan didn't care. He chased transient pleasures, each worse than the next, never able to get enough of it. He thought of the days spent recovering, dark shades indoors and endless excuses made about not showing up to another interview or signing. Of Alice sitting in the bedroom wide awake, trying not to think about the fact that her husband came home at the same time as the sun rose for the third time that week.
Suddenly Alan felt a stab to the gut. He felt like he was forgetting something horrible, as if he’d murdered someone and blocked out the memory. The feeling passed as quick as it came on, replaced by a craving so sharp that it made him forget all about the unpleasantness of his thoughts. He didn’t know what he needed, but it was making him fiendish. He needed it. Bad.
He started to get up to fetch another drink, hoping he could quell the beast by putting another drink in his system. As he was pushing himself out of the much too comfortable seat, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. “Steady there, writer.” A suave voice whispered from his left. Alan whipped around, head suddenly spinning.
Sitting there opposite him was his mirror image, his double, his doppelganger. Scratch. Alan stared, too drunk to do anything else but fall back into his chair. “I’m not sure another drink is what you need there, big boy.” Scratch smiled conspiratorially. His left hand reached into his perfectly pressed suit jacket and pulled out a small vial of something white. Alan’s pupils dilated at the sight. That couldn’t be… “Easy, tiger. Me first.” He set the vial down and pulled out a miniature spoon, digging into the powder and bringing it to his nose. He held his right nostril down and inhaled the powder, sighing loudly after the inhale. “Fuck! That’s the stuff.” He brought it to his other nostril and did the same thing. He wiped his fingers across his nose like an itch and smiled, then looked towards Alan. “Your turn.”
Alan’s brain short-circuited. He was still drunk and disoriented, but thoughts pelted rapid-fire in his brain. Scratch was here. Scratch had coke. Scratch was offering him coke. Then, words. They echoed in his brain. “I hate that stuff. Please, Alan, no more.” Alice. She was pleading with him. “Al. You’re a goddamn fiend. Lay off that stuff for awhile, maybe.” Barry comforting him after a bad night. Alan feeling nothing but anger and self-righteousness. What business of theirs was it what he did in his free time? It was his money, his body, his right to do as he pleased.
Alan wrestled with his thoughts, suddenly jolted back to whatever reality he was in by his own voice echoing in his ear, cutting through the memories. “Are you going to have any or not? I know you need it.” The bar came crashing back into his double vision, and Alan knew that Scratch was right. He needed it, bad, and he was damned if was going to miss an opportunity like this. He pushed away the unpleasant thoughts and as his clammy hands reached over to grab the small vial Scratch was holding. “Here. Let me help.” His double’s lip curled and he poured out some of the bone-white powder into the crook of his curled fist. He lifted his hand to the writer as Alan leaned down, eager to taste. He brought his nose to the crook and sniffed, hard. The caustic powder hit his nose instantly, a bitter residue lingering in Alan’s palette. His pupils dilated and Alan felt instantly rejuvenated. Scratch simply smiled and poured a bit more onto his hand, letting Alan do the same with his other nostril. After having his fill, Alan jolted back up, seeing the whole bar clearer after his short reprieve.
Scratch twisted the cap back onto the bottle and pocketed it again like nothing happened. “That was fun. But let’s not stop there writer-boy.” He leaned in closer, Alan finally able to see his features now that his vision wasn’t spinning. He was striking, all sharp angles and devilishly handsome features. Alan was an attractive man, but Scratch was both beautiful and terrible, like looking into the eye of a hurricane that will end up destroying everything in its wake. Alan stirred with want, walking directly into the storm as he gazed into the other’s piercing blue eyes. “Something the matter, Wake?” Scratch chuckled. He knew what Alan wanted, and he would give it to him gladly. But not without teasing his poor writer first.
Scratch reached his hand towards Alan’s jaw and ran his hand through the man’s beard. “Is there something you need? Or are you just going to stare into your evil doppelganger’s eyes in a completely normal, heterosexual way?” Alan faltered. He had never felt so defenceless, not in all his years fighting the dark presence. Scratch was right. He was staring, and he needed to get up and do something before it was too late. Nevermind that other comment about his masculinity.
But those deep blues pinned him to his place, the strong calloused hand on his cheek preventing any movement. “I need-I-.” He stopped. He felt so good, a perfect mixture of chemicals coursing through his body. Scratch’s hand felt so nice against his cheek, the first hint of human contact in over a decade. Did he really want to spoil it all by running? By fighting? The same things he’d been doing for years. Caught in an endless game of cat and mouse, spiralling out into madness only to be brought back exactly where he started. Loop after loop after loop. He deserved a break. Right? One night to stop running. One night to stop writing. One night to let loose, like he used to in the old days. A lifetime ago. He felt hunger deep in his stomach, stirring feelings that hadn’t been felt in years. Alan took a deep breath before he plunged into the eye of the storm.
The writer lunged forward and crashed his lips against the other’s, no longer able to contain his desire, hungry like hounds baying at the door. Eager lips met his, the hand on his cheek digging claws into his face. Like two animals in a fight to the death, they wrestled with their mouths, teeth scraping against each others'. Alan opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, felt Scratch’s wandering tongue against his. He groaned into the kiss, wanting more, needing more. The hunger gnawed at him, a primal desire for deeper connection. “Fuck.” He lamented. “I need you.”
Scratch suddenly pulled away, leaving Alan gasping and feeling like he was in freefall. Alan panted, lips red and cheeks flush from the kiss. Scratch practically pushed him away. “Having fun, writer boy?” The other chastised him. “My turn now.” He flashed a wicked grin and reached into his jacket. At first he thought he was getting more coke, but his stomach flipped when he saw what the doppelganger was reaching for. In Scratch’s hand was a switchblade, gleaning in the bar’s dim light. Scratch contemplated the blade, twisting it in his hand. “Are you going to behave?” He asked the writer. Alan shifted in his seat. He was suddenly too aware of a tightness in his pants, a growing heat in his stomach. Fuck. The writer was turned on, and he would do anything to stick his tongue back into the heat of Scratch’s mouth. He looked into the eyes of the other and nodded, unable to speak. This was a trap and he had walked right into it, willingly. He winced at the thought of coming pain, muscle memory from previous loops ingrained deep in his subconscious. Interestingly, the prospect had done nothing to quell the growing bulge in his pants. Something to dissect later.
“Knees. Now.” Scratch pointed the knife at Alan’s throat, knowing it wasn’t necessary but liking the drama of the action anyways. Alan complied, climbing off his cushioned seat and onto the dirty bar floor. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, but he had to see this through one way or the other.
“Good dog.” Scratch smiled. He leisurely lifted the blade off the writer’s chin and into his hand. He closed his palm against the blade of his own knife and sliced. He barely winced, but rolled his eyes back as if it gave him pleasure cutting into his own skin. Red droplets trickled down the doppelganger’s wrist, staining the pristine white shirt peeking out under his blazer. “Now open up.” Scratch tipped Alan’s chin up with his other hand, pleased with how obedient his dog had been so far. Alan acquiesced, parting his pretty lips and opening wide for the Herald. Scratch brought his bleeding hand over Alan’s mouth and squeezed against his palm, crimson droplets falling like rain into the other man’s open mouth. Alan recoiled at the coppery taste, trying his hardest to keep his mouth open despite the wave of nausea he felt. He had never tasted blood except his own, and the feeling made him dizzy. He knew it was impossible, but he somehow felt drunk on the liquid, a new drug coursing through his body. It felt dangerous. It felt good. Scratch leaned down, satisfied his pup had his fill.
He reached his bloodied hand towards Alan collar and pulled him up, his lips meeting the other’s. Blood mixed with saliva as their mouths explored each others for a second time. Alan was desperate, moaning into the kiss, sick with lust. His hands roamed Scratch’s form, desperate to feel skin. Scratch deepened the kiss and growled, smiling against Alan’s mouth. His writer was opening up for him so beautifully, giving the Herald everything he desired.
He felt possessive of the writer, and was hit with the sudden desire to show that to the world. He shimmied Alan’s jacket off and started on his tie, breathing deep into the other’s mouth while working with skilled hands. Claws practically ripped the buttons off the shirt as they worked fast to disrobe the writer. “There he is.” Scratch growled, fingers tracing spirals on Alan’s bare chest. “My pretty writer. Mine.” The doppelganger leaned his head into the writer’s collarbone and planted a kiss there before baring his teeth and nipping at it lightly. Alan squirmed under the sensation, one hand slipping down to work on the erection that was begging for his attention. Scratch hissed and pulled Alan’s hand away, strong hands holding the smaller man in place. “That’s for me.” Alan gritted his teeth, writhing in the other’s grasp. “F-fucking do something about it then.” He managed, bratty as ever despite the situation he was in. “Tut-tut. So bossy. What shall we do about that, hm?” Scratch flashed his canines in a smile and leaned down, sucking a bruise into Alan’s neck before biting the sensitive skin, drawing blood. “Fuck!” Alan yelped as pain mixed with pleasure and his double lapped at the red droplets blooming on his skin.
He licked his lips before pushing the writer down onto the chair and pouncing on him. Long fingers worked at the Champion’s belt while his mouth teased the clothed bulge. Moans of desperation flew from Alan’s lips as he rolled his hips into the other’s mouth. The Herald of Darkness shimmied Alan’s pants and boxers down his hips, finally letting the writer’s aching cock spring free. The tip glistened with precome, begging to be touched and worshipped.
“Ah. I love humans.” The double chuckled. “Their words say so much, but their bodies say more.” He positioned his mouth against Alan’s cock, not yet taking him in. “Beg for me.” His blue eyes locked onto the writer’s, holding him there. Alan’s cock twitched at the sight of his double, on his knees so close to his dripping cock. “Please.” He sighed. “Please, what, Al?” Scratch batted his long lashes at the writer, revelling in teasing the poor man. “Please, Scratch. Please.” Alan pleaded, looking deep into Scratch’s eyes with pure need and desire.
The final syllable of Alan’s words came out choked, as Scratch took Alan into his mouth without warning. Alan moaned as Scratch’s lips fastened around his cock, taking him deep down his throat. Although the two men were almost identical, it was clear there were some differences between them, most notably right now being Scratch’s lack of gag reflex. Scratch moaned around Alan’s cock like a cheap whore, sending static electricity through Alan’s sensitive member.
“Oh fuck, Scratch. I’m so close.” Alan moaned. He was so needy, so desperate, so touch-starved. He felt like it was his first time again, so out of his depth and dizzy with pure sensation. Scratch pulled his lips off the other’s cock before planting kissing on the tip and licking a stripe from the head to the base, cupping his balls as he did. Before Alan could get out another word, he took him back into his mouth, head bobbing obscenely as he sucked the life out of the other man. Alan came with a start, vision whiting out as he moaned out his doppelganger’s name. He pumped his fluid down the Herald’s throat, finally able to look down at the sultry sight of the man taking all of his come so well. Scratch wiped his mouth on his sleeve before leaning up to grin at his precious writer. as he tucked him back into his boxers. “How’d I do, Al?” He smirked. “Not bad huh? I’m sure you noticed I got rid of that tedious gag reflex. Just gets in the way of my important work.” He licked his lips, salty with the man’s sweat and cum, before kissing the writer again. Alan tasted himself on the double's mouth before the man pulled away. Alan whined at the loss of the other's mouth on his.
"Now, wasn't that a nice reprieve, Alan? See what happens when you work with me instead of against me?" The Herald winked. "Unfortunately, I have other work that needs to be done. I'm a busy man, Al." Scratch faked a pouty face. "And you, have work to do too." He grinned, a crocodile smile.
Alan couldn't believe it. He had barely had time to catch his breath and now he was being kicked to the curb like a mutt. Alan didn't even have a chance to figure out where he was and what was going on before Scratch appeared and well, distracted him. His mouth flew open, a million questions and expletives on his tongue.
Scratch anticipated the display and brought his blood stained finger to Alan's mouth, shushing the man. "Don't worry, my pretty writer. This isn't the last time we'll meet like this. After all, you still owe me one." And with that Scratch winked and sunk his concealed dagger into Alan's chest, watching with glee as the light left the writer's eyes. He kept his dagger deep in his chest until the colour drained from Al's face, then pulled it out with ease. He chuckled as Alan's still warm body hit the floor with a thud, bringing the bloody blade to his lips as he smiled.