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electrumicity) wrote2024-02-05 04:33 pm
electrumicity) wrote2024-02-05 04:33 pm
The Signal
Title: The Signal
Fandom: Alan Wake
Pairing: Scratch/Alan
Rating: NC-17
Notes: SEVERE WARNING of extreme violence and dubcon/noncon. This is not a fluffy or happy story. Scratch is involved. 'nuff said. There is torture during sex. Please keep that in mind.
Takes place in between AW1 and American Nightmare, shortly after The Signal DLC. I joked as I played it that I'd write 50 words of Alan getting tortured every time something stupid happened or I died to something stupid. Many stupid things happened. I died to many stupid things. I was being generous with my final count of about 400 and wasn't gonna actually write it but then I did. And couldn't stop.
Scratch is kinda in the middle of forming himself leading up to AWAN. idfk. I've read ten thousand interpretations and theories about this series and still don't know what the fuck is going on at any point. Just roll with it.
One bite for every silly sentence. One nick of a knife after every nonsensical paragraph. One long, shallow score down pale skin after every page deemed absolute trash.
"Surely you could do better than that, buddy," Scratch huffed as he set another page aside, moving his grip back to the knife. A new favorite of his, judging by how he'd been able to paint his dear other half with it.
Before him lay the writer. Bare, tied up, several fingers bruised and bent at unnatural angles.
"Gotta say, you were a little too on the nose with your books trying to kill you. At least you admitted how much they sucked.
"What is it that they say? Admitting being the first step towards acceptance?" Scratch trailed the knife down one of Alan's sides lightly, up and down. A light caress against skin. "You were soooo, so close. And then you turned the books into fucking birds."
The writer let out a hoarse cry with the increase of the blade's pressure. It slid easily through the top layer of skin and sliced through. Blood immediately began to flow from the wound. While he'd not been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey (yet, anyway; there was a non-zero chance of it ending that way), it still hurt like a bitch and did nothing for his dizziness.
Scratch placed the blade aside and leaned down, running his tongue over the newest open wound. Coppery, salty, and yet somehow sweet. Addictive. He knew he wouldn't be able to get enough of the taste, the smell, the sight. The writer shuddered underneath him, desperately trying to hold back another cry of pain. Not wanting to completely give in.
Now, that wouldn't do. Scratch moved his head away, licking his lips and not at all minding the blood that had smeared on his chin and growing stubble. He grasped Alan's hips, his nails digging in as deep into his skin as they could, and gave him another hard, rough thrust.
This time, Alan couldn't hold back a yelp.
"Now that's how we like it," Scratch cooed as he leaned back in, nuzzling Alan's cheek in a mockery of affection. His mouth shifted over to capture the writer's mouth in a biting kiss. Quite literally, at that. He bit down hard, drawing blood from his lower lip, and lapped at it before returning to his mouth proper. It looked less of a kiss and more of a predator trying to swallow someone whole. And oh, Alan was such pretty prey.
Scratch let his hands run along the bruised and bloodied body beneath him. His thumb ran over the newest opened wound, and he pressed into it simultaneously to give him another hard thrust. The author tried to muffle his next outcry. Tsk, again, that just wouldn't do.
Either way, there was more to read. He flipped through a few more pages, lazily rocking his hips inside of Alan. He had wanted the full course, after all. Scratch rarely settled for less.
After one particular section, he paused. Read it over. Once, twice. His constructive criticism came in the form of the knife plunged into Alan's palm, his body not skipping a beat throughout. He shivered at the combination of sensation and sound of the accompanied choked cry.
"Truck derbys, writer boy? Really? What kind of weird shit did you scrounge up here to smoke to get that?" he asked with a laugh.
Alan could only glare past tired, pained yet defiant eyes. Beautiful.
More pages, now. More strangely exploding words. Tom Zane trying to be a big damn hero and failing. Idiotic jokes from that one annoyance of an agent. As he read and moved, the knife now held again left small nicks into Alan's skin, just above his heart. Short strokes, carving out his name. He could feel it beating beneath the steel blade. Oh, how good it would feel to plunge it in, to truly feel his heartbeat as intimately as possible. But he didn't want to end the fun just yet.
Alan continued as much silent defiance as he could underneath him, even if he'd since given up on truly fighting back. He'd already lost and had the good sense to know it.
There were only a few pages left now. As he perused them, his hips slowed, then stilled.
Her.
Gooey, sappy memories of her.
No. She didn't have him anymore. Alan belonged to him now. Her claim was gone, and Alan needed to let his go too.
Scratch moved in almost impossibly closer, smothering the writer's body with his own, setting a quick and rough pace. Still angered by the mentions of her, he grabbed the handle of the blade still embedded in Alan's palm, twisting it. He swallowed up that beautiful wail of agony with his lips.
"Mine," he hissed as he raked his nails down his body, painting angry crimson marks onto spots that were not yet black, blue, or red. His mood, however, rebounded when he noticed that Alan's interest was very much there.
The lady doth complain, but the evidence was there to see and feel. Anger turned to pride, and he once again pressed them together, grasping Alan's cock tightly enough to hurt and stroked it as he left more bites along his jaw and neck.
Alan squirmed underneath him, face screwed up, as stubborn about showing pleasure as he was pain. His body betrayed him, of course. Next would be his words, but Scratch would save that for next time. Right now, they had all the time in the world.
Again he picked up the pace, buying his face into the crook of Alan's neck, panting hotly against his skin. He'd make him his in every way. Teach him. Twist him. Deform him. Break him enough that the only pieces left to repair him were Scratch.
He moaned, the thoughts sending shivers down his spine, erotic as the very action he was already partaking in. His movements were desperate now, hand still moving on his author with an intensity he knew would have him bordering on pain.
"No one," Scratch panted, "no one will ever have you again but me. You..are mine. And I...am yours. All yours, my writer boy. You'll never want anyone else again."
Even with his eyes shut, Alan's expression was easy enough to read. The squirming beneath him. The hitches in his breath. He was close.
And, well. While Alan didn't exactly deserve a job well done on such a shitty effort to get himself out of the Dark Place, Scratch already had a bit of a soft spot for him. Besides, Alan having to live knowing he enjoyed this was so much better than him going through traditional torture.
Scratch breathed hard against Alan's neck as body moved roughly and desperately against him, wanting to chase that high. Licking, biting, leaving marks and bruises and punctures oozing blood.
He came with a roar, teeth latching quickly and fiercely onto the writer's shoulder right after. This was the closest he'd get right now to making them one, and though it was only a taste, it felt fucking amazing. Scratch let himself ride it out, hips still moving in short but deep thrusts. He wanted every bit of him to fill Alan as deeply as it'd go.
He pulled back just enough to be able to look at his lovely but foolish author. Tense. Fingers, despite broken or dislocated, twitching. His body tighter around Scratch's cock, wound up tight and about to snap.
"Welcome home," Scratch whispered in his ear as Alan's body fully gave in. He nipped his lobe and licked the shell of his ear. Salty and sweet, already so addicting.
When Alan's body sagged underneath his, fight gone and the high rode out, Scratch pulled back enough to look him over. He was a masterpiece. One finger swiped through the sticky fluid quickly drying on Alan's abdomen, and he brought it to his lips. Just as delicious.
Only just on the verge of consciousness now, the writer could only give a quiet, pained whine as the knife was yanked from his hand and tossed to the side. It clattered against the ground with a loud noise.
Scratch shifted their positions until he was spooning his double, possessively holding him tight. Not letting go. He had no intention of that. Oh, they'd play, but when it came down to it, this is who they were. Just like this. One.
"You may be a shitty writer," he slurred against Alan's neck, "but you still know how to get me going. Can't wait to see how you try to improve. I'll be your greatest critic."
Alan wouldn't fall asleep exactly, was forgetting even how to, but exhaustion and pain took what was left of his consciousness. Scratch took a deep breath, letting all of his senses truly take it all in.
His little writer still had much to learn before they'd escape and Scratch could make a world truly for them. But right now, he'd enjoy this.
They'd have plenty of time.
Fandom: Alan Wake
Pairing: Scratch/Alan
Rating: NC-17
Notes: SEVERE WARNING of extreme violence and dubcon/noncon. This is not a fluffy or happy story. Scratch is involved. 'nuff said. There is torture during sex. Please keep that in mind.
Takes place in between AW1 and American Nightmare, shortly after The Signal DLC. I joked as I played it that I'd write 50 words of Alan getting tortured every time something stupid happened or I died to something stupid. Many stupid things happened. I died to many stupid things. I was being generous with my final count of about 400 and wasn't gonna actually write it but then I did. And couldn't stop.
Scratch is kinda in the middle of forming himself leading up to AWAN. idfk. I've read ten thousand interpretations and theories about this series and still don't know what the fuck is going on at any point. Just roll with it.
One bite for every silly sentence. One nick of a knife after every nonsensical paragraph. One long, shallow score down pale skin after every page deemed absolute trash.
"Surely you could do better than that, buddy," Scratch huffed as he set another page aside, moving his grip back to the knife. A new favorite of his, judging by how he'd been able to paint his dear other half with it.
Before him lay the writer. Bare, tied up, several fingers bruised and bent at unnatural angles.
"Gotta say, you were a little too on the nose with your books trying to kill you. At least you admitted how much they sucked.
"What is it that they say? Admitting being the first step towards acceptance?" Scratch trailed the knife down one of Alan's sides lightly, up and down. A light caress against skin. "You were soooo, so close. And then you turned the books into fucking birds."
The writer let out a hoarse cry with the increase of the blade's pressure. It slid easily through the top layer of skin and sliced through. Blood immediately began to flow from the wound. While he'd not been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey (yet, anyway; there was a non-zero chance of it ending that way), it still hurt like a bitch and did nothing for his dizziness.
Scratch placed the blade aside and leaned down, running his tongue over the newest open wound. Coppery, salty, and yet somehow sweet. Addictive. He knew he wouldn't be able to get enough of the taste, the smell, the sight. The writer shuddered underneath him, desperately trying to hold back another cry of pain. Not wanting to completely give in.
Now, that wouldn't do. Scratch moved his head away, licking his lips and not at all minding the blood that had smeared on his chin and growing stubble. He grasped Alan's hips, his nails digging in as deep into his skin as they could, and gave him another hard, rough thrust.
This time, Alan couldn't hold back a yelp.
"Now that's how we like it," Scratch cooed as he leaned back in, nuzzling Alan's cheek in a mockery of affection. His mouth shifted over to capture the writer's mouth in a biting kiss. Quite literally, at that. He bit down hard, drawing blood from his lower lip, and lapped at it before returning to his mouth proper. It looked less of a kiss and more of a predator trying to swallow someone whole. And oh, Alan was such pretty prey.
Scratch let his hands run along the bruised and bloodied body beneath him. His thumb ran over the newest opened wound, and he pressed into it simultaneously to give him another hard thrust. The author tried to muffle his next outcry. Tsk, again, that just wouldn't do.
Either way, there was more to read. He flipped through a few more pages, lazily rocking his hips inside of Alan. He had wanted the full course, after all. Scratch rarely settled for less.
After one particular section, he paused. Read it over. Once, twice. His constructive criticism came in the form of the knife plunged into Alan's palm, his body not skipping a beat throughout. He shivered at the combination of sensation and sound of the accompanied choked cry.
"Truck derbys, writer boy? Really? What kind of weird shit did you scrounge up here to smoke to get that?" he asked with a laugh.
Alan could only glare past tired, pained yet defiant eyes. Beautiful.
More pages, now. More strangely exploding words. Tom Zane trying to be a big damn hero and failing. Idiotic jokes from that one annoyance of an agent. As he read and moved, the knife now held again left small nicks into Alan's skin, just above his heart. Short strokes, carving out his name. He could feel it beating beneath the steel blade. Oh, how good it would feel to plunge it in, to truly feel his heartbeat as intimately as possible. But he didn't want to end the fun just yet.
Alan continued as much silent defiance as he could underneath him, even if he'd since given up on truly fighting back. He'd already lost and had the good sense to know it.
There were only a few pages left now. As he perused them, his hips slowed, then stilled.
Her.
Gooey, sappy memories of her.
No. She didn't have him anymore. Alan belonged to him now. Her claim was gone, and Alan needed to let his go too.
Scratch moved in almost impossibly closer, smothering the writer's body with his own, setting a quick and rough pace. Still angered by the mentions of her, he grabbed the handle of the blade still embedded in Alan's palm, twisting it. He swallowed up that beautiful wail of agony with his lips.
"Mine," he hissed as he raked his nails down his body, painting angry crimson marks onto spots that were not yet black, blue, or red. His mood, however, rebounded when he noticed that Alan's interest was very much there.
The lady doth complain, but the evidence was there to see and feel. Anger turned to pride, and he once again pressed them together, grasping Alan's cock tightly enough to hurt and stroked it as he left more bites along his jaw and neck.
Alan squirmed underneath him, face screwed up, as stubborn about showing pleasure as he was pain. His body betrayed him, of course. Next would be his words, but Scratch would save that for next time. Right now, they had all the time in the world.
Again he picked up the pace, buying his face into the crook of Alan's neck, panting hotly against his skin. He'd make him his in every way. Teach him. Twist him. Deform him. Break him enough that the only pieces left to repair him were Scratch.
He moaned, the thoughts sending shivers down his spine, erotic as the very action he was already partaking in. His movements were desperate now, hand still moving on his author with an intensity he knew would have him bordering on pain.
"No one," Scratch panted, "no one will ever have you again but me. You..are mine. And I...am yours. All yours, my writer boy. You'll never want anyone else again."
Even with his eyes shut, Alan's expression was easy enough to read. The squirming beneath him. The hitches in his breath. He was close.
And, well. While Alan didn't exactly deserve a job well done on such a shitty effort to get himself out of the Dark Place, Scratch already had a bit of a soft spot for him. Besides, Alan having to live knowing he enjoyed this was so much better than him going through traditional torture.
Scratch breathed hard against Alan's neck as body moved roughly and desperately against him, wanting to chase that high. Licking, biting, leaving marks and bruises and punctures oozing blood.
He came with a roar, teeth latching quickly and fiercely onto the writer's shoulder right after. This was the closest he'd get right now to making them one, and though it was only a taste, it felt fucking amazing. Scratch let himself ride it out, hips still moving in short but deep thrusts. He wanted every bit of him to fill Alan as deeply as it'd go.
He pulled back just enough to be able to look at his lovely but foolish author. Tense. Fingers, despite broken or dislocated, twitching. His body tighter around Scratch's cock, wound up tight and about to snap.
"Welcome home," Scratch whispered in his ear as Alan's body fully gave in. He nipped his lobe and licked the shell of his ear. Salty and sweet, already so addicting.
When Alan's body sagged underneath his, fight gone and the high rode out, Scratch pulled back enough to look him over. He was a masterpiece. One finger swiped through the sticky fluid quickly drying on Alan's abdomen, and he brought it to his lips. Just as delicious.
Only just on the verge of consciousness now, the writer could only give a quiet, pained whine as the knife was yanked from his hand and tossed to the side. It clattered against the ground with a loud noise.
Scratch shifted their positions until he was spooning his double, possessively holding him tight. Not letting go. He had no intention of that. Oh, they'd play, but when it came down to it, this is who they were. Just like this. One.
"You may be a shitty writer," he slurred against Alan's neck, "but you still know how to get me going. Can't wait to see how you try to improve. I'll be your greatest critic."
Alan wouldn't fall asleep exactly, was forgetting even how to, but exhaustion and pain took what was left of his consciousness. Scratch took a deep breath, letting all of his senses truly take it all in.
His little writer still had much to learn before they'd escape and Scratch could make a world truly for them. But right now, he'd enjoy this.
They'd have plenty of time.