So Pull Yourself Over Me

Allelujah wakes up with a scream caged behind his teeth and Hallelujah is there, leaning against the door, backlit by the glow from the hallway and oddly sinister. Or rather, not oddly at all, and Allelujah tries to tell himself that the strange heavy feeling that’s settling in the pit of his stomach is just nerves.

“Go away,” he says, and is glad for the darkness when his voice catches and blurs the consonant.

“No.”

The problem is, Hallelujah is a figment of Allelujah’s mind, a figment, and how do you argue with a byproduct of your own psyche? “Hallelujah,” he says, sitting up and slinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Go away. You’re not even here.”

“Aren’t I?” Hallelujah tilts his head, and Allelujah can almost feel the calculating look he’s receiving. “I think I’m pretty fucking real.”

“You’re – ”

And then Hallelujah is there, against him, his hands fisted in Allelujah’s hair as he pushes Allelujah back onto the mattress and straddles him. “Seem real now?” he asks, and his voice is something between a growl and a purr, gravelly and low and no, Allelujah will not let him do this. Not again.

“Get off,” Allelujah says, and realizes a bit too late that if the best he can offer is ineffective two-word commands, he may as well just give himself over. And as if reading his mind, Hallelujah grins that predatory grin and leans over until their mouths touch. It’s not a kiss, not at all, but it’s close, and it’s intimate in ways that Allelujah tells himself he hates.

“No,” Hallelujah breathes, his lips brushing Allelujah’s as he speaks.

I’m hallucinating, Allelujah tells himself. This is a dream. But it doesn’t feel anything less than real when Hallelujah’s knees press against his ribs and he pushes back, grinds down, and maybe Allelujah’s managed to convince his mind that Hallelujah is a figment but there is a decidedly unconvinced portion of his anatomy that is all too ready to doubt him.

They don’t talk, after that. Some days – because this happens more frequently than Allelujah wants to admit – some days, Hallelujah talks through it, his voice wrapping around Allelujah’s body, caressing him and practically ripping his orgasm from him. Other days he’s silent, and those are the days that Allelujah knows to be careful, because he’ll ride the knife edge of pain and one wrong move could send him tumbling. Hallelujah’s fingernails dig into his collarbone, his shoulders, his biceps, leaving little red crescent-moon indentations wherever they go. Maybe someday Allelujah will learn to sleep with a shirt on.

Something in the back of Allelujah’s mind wonders if this qualifies as rape. Something else wonders whether or not one can have nonconsensual sex with a hallucination that’s really just a figment of your imagination, anyway, and that’s about the time that Hallelujah notices he’s not paying attention – a second later, there’s a hand wrapped around his cock and another tugging his balls, and that gets his attention like nothing else could.

“Watch,” Hallelujah growls. There’s no joking in his tone, not anymore.

And Allelujah, he pushes himself up on his elbows and glues his eyes to Hallelujah’s hand and watches as if transfixed as Hallelujah pulls, his wrist twisting. Once, twice, and then Hallelujah is – unthinkably – straddling him again, settling himself back, taking Allelujah one torturously slow inch at a time. He doesn’t stop. He never stops, he just braces his knees on Allelujah’s hands and lifts himself up, down, up again. Allelujah clenches his fists as best he can, digs his heels into the bed and tries not to enjoy it so fucking much, tries not to give in to the sounds that are collecting in the back of his throat, tries not to bite his lip and fuck Hallelujah for all that he’s worth.

It doesn’t work very well.

The grin on Hallelujah’s face when Allelujah loses control is triumphant, or it would be if it weren’t for the lines of sweat drawing wet trails down his throat and collarbones, if it weren’t for the half-lidded, heavy gaze that sings through Allelujah’s nerves like a bolt of fucking lightning. Hallelujah releases his hands and Allelujah’s palms find the curve of hipbones, his thumbs pressing into the line of muscle where his thigh joins his torso. It’s like guidance, except that they both know who’s in charge.

“Still think – I’m not real?” Hallelujah asks, and it makes Allelujah feel marginally better to hear the hitch in his voice despite the taunt.

Allelujah has several choice words to say, and none of them good, but they are all lost as something comes unhinged low in his spine, and he’s shattering into a million tiny pieces, hot and melting and shivering against Hallelujah. The sound that comes from his throat isn’t words, but a shudder formed into noise, and when he comes to himself Hallelujah is gone.

Instead he finds his sheets on the floor and a very familiar mess on his stomach, and when he looks there are no traces of crescent-moon indentations on his arms nor scratches on his abdomen.

“Oh,” he says. He wipes his stomach with a tissue, pulls the sheets up in some mockery of dignity, and grits his teeth against the heat of anger in his throat.