#Alan Wake fanfic

[lilmoonbunny]

Just Alex; Alex Casey

When a case gone wrong leads to a confession, Casey is unsure how to act around her.

Warnings: hostage situation, stabbing, slight jealous!casey

This takes place before Alan Wake 2. Also, I'm only like half-way through, so he may be out-of-character.

Alex Casey loves coffee, anybody who knows him was aware of this. There was never a point in time when he was free and was seen without his beloved drink. Perhaps it was unhealthy – an addiction – but he couldn’t find him in it to care. With the stress of everything, coffee was the thing that made him feel better, well… one of the things.

Y/N was his co-worker, his partner in crime, if you will. She helped him feel better too, maybe even more than coffee did. Y/N was many things: kind, sweet, funny, and a coffee addict also; that was potentially a reason that the pair got along so well.

“Morning, Casey,” Y/N greeted the mentioned man with a smile the moment she spotted him entering the office, two cups in hand.

“I’ve told you before, Y/N, just Alex is fine,” he grumbled, passing her the coffee cup, a daily occurrence between them.

“I know, but then everyone looks at me weirdly, so…”

Because you’re the only person I let call me Alex, he thought to himself with an internal roll of the eyes.

Casey simply sighed and sipped his own coffee.

The case that they were working was tough. There were no leads and neither of the duo knew where to go with it next, which is why they brought in Graham.

Graham was around their age, a cop from the town that they were currently working in, and Casey did not like him one bit.

“Y/N, why don’t you come with me, and I’ll show you around?” Graham grinned as he pointed towards his car, completely ignoring her partner as he did so.

The woman, however, seemed oblivious to the flirtatious offer that the cop gave, smiling politely and looking towards Casey. “Me and Casey have got somewhere to be soon; a meeting with something very important.”

Casey shot her a look. They had nowhere else to be, nor any leads, so why was she saying this? She simply nodded at him.

“Oh, all right,” Graham said, clearly annoyed that Casey came first. “Maybe another time?”

“Absolutely!” She smiled, although it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “See you later.”

A relieved sigh left her lips the moment Graham was out of earshot.

“We have something to meet? Did you mean someone?” Casey asked bluntly, confusion filling his face when she laughed.

“Coffee, Casey. We have a meeting with coffee.” She grinned, this time it completely meeting her eyes and he couldn’t help the small smile that crawled onto his lips. “I couldn’t stand listening to him flirt any longer, it was awful.”

“You realised? You seemed oblivious,”

“Years of being around men will teach you to act that way, Casey.”

He grumbled. “Just Alex is fine.”

The case had gotten intense, and Y/N and Casey were currently hunting the killer. Back-up was on the way, but they had to chase the killer alone, or else they’d lose him for God knows how long.

Guns drawn, the pair rushed after the shadows of the suspect, muddy footsteps mixed with blood being their lead.

“FBI! Show yourself!” Y/N called into the wooded area, eyes darting around the scene, looking for the killer or anything that may reveal his location.

Casey was behind her, watching their backs just in case, but a gasp from his partner had him spinning around.

In front of him stood the killer, Y/N in his arms with a gun to her head. His body froze, yet his face remained neutral, his own gun raised towards the killer. He couldn’t get a clear shot of him, but hopefully it would deter him from doing something stupid.

“Drop your weapon,” Casey demanded, heart racing.

“Or what?” The killer taunted. “You’ll shoot? I’ll just shove your pretty little girlfriend here in front of me.”

Y/N remained silent, focusing on her breathing whilst planning how to get out of this mess. Her gun had been grabbed and tossed the moment he got a hold of her, so that was no use, but the knife on her thigh…

Casey was stumped for what to do. He was right, of course, shooting at him would just get Y/N in more danger, and that was the last thing that he wanted; he never wanted her in danger. Back-up was likely nowhere near and possibly had no idea where they were.

“Look,” He had to stall for time, “I know you’re scared, but hurting her will just give you less options.” Casey had no idea what he was saying and had to force himself to keep his gaze on the killer and not the woman he had grown fond of that was in danger. “I’m a witness, remember.”

The killer tensed at his words. “You know nothing about what I’m feeling.” He spat. “You’ve never known true fear.”

“I have, and I am right now.”

“Why!?”

The gun was on him now, perfect.

Y/N’s arm slowly inched towards the knife strapped to her thigh whilst she prayed Casey could keep him distracted.

“Because you’re holding her hostage,”

“And that matters why?”

Almost there, Y/N thought to herself, the conversation going on unheard by her as she focused.

“Because I love her.”

The moment she had hold of the knife, she swung it into the killer’s thigh, feeling his grip on her and the gun release as he stumbled backwards. Casey’s eyes widened, both at the confession that had just hit him and the fact that Y/N had stabbed him.

Y/N’s own eyes widened in shock at her actions as she let out a breath that she was unaware that she had been holding. “Oh my God,” she gasped, turning to face the killer who was lying on the floor. Without thinking, she rushed towards him, unsure of what to do; Casey did the same.

“Here,” Casey handed Y/N her usual coffee as she sat in the empty office.

“Thanks,” she muttered, curling into her soaked FBI jacket.

Casey took note of her shivering form and excused himself before coming back with his dry jacket, passing it to her. “Take this.” He spoke.

“Thank you,” she said, finally looking up at him from where she was sat.

The silence was comfortable, at least to her; Casey had no idea what to say to her, assuming she had heard his earlier confession.

“Casey,” Y/N broke the silence, “are you all right? You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It was out of line, and I shouldn’t have said it.” He rushed.

“What did you say? Have I missed something?” She asked, cuddling into his jacket.

It smells like him, she noted.

“In the forest, before you…” He trailed off.

“I’ll be honest, Alex, I wasn’t listening.”

The use of his name had his cheeks flushing red. “You finally said it,”

“Well, yeah. You kind of saved my life, I think I owe you.”

“Saved your life? How?”

Y/N smiled softly, reaching out to take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

“You kept him distracted long enough for me to grab my knife, idiot. Now, what were you on about?”

Alex sighed quietly, taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s nothing.”

Y/N glanced at him, his awkwardness something she wasn’t used to seeing on him. Something was up, and she wanted to know what.

"Did you say you loved me or something?” She joked, eyes widening as he pulled his hand away from her own and tensed. “Oh, you did.”

She watched as he quickly stood to his feet. “Forget about it,” he muttered, turning to leave.

“Alex, c’mon.” You can’t just rush off when I find out you feel the same.”

Her words had him freezing in place, slowly turning to face her.

“The same?”

“That is what I said, yes.”

He smiled. “You mean that?”

“Obviously, you idiot,”

The pair smiled at each other as he took a seat opposite her once again. Y/N’s hand found his again, the warmth shooting through their bodies the moment their skin touched.

Sure, it might have been a life-or-death situation that got them to admit their feelings, but at least they got there.

“It took you years to call me Alex, I will never forget that.”

“We were having a moment…”

[tanis-fics]

Hypothermia

At last, Alan Wake escapes the Dark Place for good, but stumbles in the way out when an unnatural cold freezes over his very core. Luckily he's not alone this time, and the people he loves the most help him warm up.

Pairings: Alan Wake/Alice Wake/Barry Wheeler × Alan Wake/Alice Wake × Alan Wake/Barry Wheeler × Alice Wake & Barry Wheeler ♦ Words: 3215

[on ao3] ♦ [on squidgeworld] ♦ [read on site]

 What once was a fancy suit now was hardly distinguishable from the dark place he was trapped in, sticking, wrapping around his skin slick and wet like dark seaweed around an unsuspecting diver. Alan didn't know when he started shivering, when his hands gave up trying to take off the damned thing, when his eyes started losing focus and the newfound heartbeat started feeling slower and slower, but before the dark (not The Dark, but close enough to make him sick) could claim him hands shined in that darkness.

 They helped him. They always did. Alice loosened the noose of his tie and struggled with the buttons that appeared to be melted on the fabric as Barry took off everything else, layer after layer after layer. Alan didn't remember wearing those many layers, but the thing that was being peeled by his best friend could hardly be described as clothing anymore.

 Even as the last layer of thin film-like substance was removed from his body and quickly replaced by a dry towel he felt weak. The slick cold still stuck to his skin like a disease, and Alan feared the prospect of never getting rid of it, after so much struggle, after so many years. Gentle hands rubbed the towel against his skin, against his heavy wet hair, his bushy beard, long extremities too numb to try to do it on their own.

 He could hear them talking around him, voices floating aimlessly without him being able to catch them, but regardless Alan smiled weakly, almost feverish, at that. When was the last time his beloved wife and best friend seemed to be on the same page together? Vague threads of memory resurfaced slowly as the warmth of the towel started to sink in, echoes in the dark that could have been real as much as deceptive, and the mere fact that they could have had happened in the past decades without him knowing, without him being there, made a pit on his stomach. He had lost so much time with them.

 "Here you go, Al, drink this."

 Alan could only make a nondescript noise at the sight of a steaming cup of something, larger hands wrapping around his own as Barry helped him take the cup to his lips. Hot chocolate. Oh, it had been a while since he last had a hot chocolate, hadn't it? He almost chokes on the drink as grief threatened to close off his throat, if not for the sets of hands cupping his own and caressing his feeble neck.

 The warmth penetrated his body in small yet thick doses, down his throat and through his veins. It was uncomfortable, it almost hurt, too, but he took it in stride. With it Alan could feel some of his senses coming back as he held on tighter to the mug with his own hands, taking a deep breath through his nose and letting it flow freely trough his lips, seeing the steam curl around in the air as it disappeared into the room... Which room was it? For a second Alan hoped, feared, to see his very own room in Parliament Tower, but they were clearly not in it. No, this room was smaller, both messier and emptier in a way that made him feel vaguely melancholic, with a framed photograph sitting on the other side of it.

 He recognized Barry immediately, like a mirage, but it took him longer to recognize himself at his side.

 Has he's even been in that room? In that house? Did Barry move? Did something happen? Alan couldn't remember. Was any of this even real?

 Before he could ponder further he felt the towel being taken off his shoulders, and even though it had grown cold with time a complaint escaped him nonetheless, finding a small comfort on the pressure of it. Such complaint died as soon as it started when he felt a different kind of warmth envelop him instead, arms slipping through his waist to wrap around his stomach, pulling him closer.

 Barry looked different from what he remembered, he wasn't too far gone to not realize something bad had happened despite the vague feeling that he should know exactly what, but in that moment, in that hug, he was the same old Barry Wheeler he knew and loved since they were children. A crushing hug with an excess of concern and anxiety that made him bark a weak laugh for the first time in a very long time. Skin against skin the remnants of his subnatural cold quickly extinguished as he shivered for entirely different reasons.

 To lay together to avoid the deadly cold, now that was an old cliché if he ever saw one. He would be lying if he said he never used it himself in one of his books, the appeal was clear, but he couldn't figure out how they could possibly imagine the situation applied here. Decades of continuous drowning in the Dark Place was not a mere case of hypothermia.

 Regardless, he leaned into it. Alan leaned into him in that tight space the same way he would wrap inside an old cozy blanket in a cold, cold winter night.

 Looking up for what it felt the first time he met the gaze of his beautiful, wonderful wife with surprise. As much as he could muster, anyway. Former apprehensions wanted to crawl up his skin with the slow dawning of the scene, feeling the comfortable warmth of his best friend's front and side enveloping him completely from behind, wanting to sink into it yet dreading the bickering that it might entice. But Alice's eyes reflected back only the profound love he was feeling at the moment, coupled with a deep sense of sadness directed at the scene.

 Before Alan could grab her hand and tug her into his aching arms, however, something else distracted him. Hot tears were rolling down his back to split where skin met skin, leaving a burning trail on it. Barry was crying, messy and snotty and pressing his cheek on his shoulder blades as he buried his hands on the hollow of his stomach.

 The memory of leaving him on the well-lit room flashed on his mind's eye, desperately trying to derive meaning as the loops and years built and crumpled like sandcastles on his mind. But he did remember leaving him for what he hoped wasn't the last time. And as he tried and failed to turn around to face him, Alan twisted enough to lean his forehead against Barry's head, wrapping a stiff arm around it to bring him closer than physically possible, his other hand grasping his tight embrace until his fingers hurt with the effort.

 Nudging the ever receding hairline with the tip of his nose, Alan couldn't help but smile when Barry cried harder. He had always been a bit of a crybaby, ever since they were kids.

 His burning cheek and fuzzy chest pressed tightly against his naked back were new. So were the heavy hands anchoring on his front as if he tried to keep him in that plane of existence all by himself. Knowing Barry, he probably was. He, however, didn't say a word as the mattress shifted under the added pressure of Alice, who silently joined the embrace and quickly warmed up the places that were left untouched, making a place for herself between his tucked legs and bare neck.

 Alan took a deep, shaky breath, swallowing on the verge of but not quite overwhelmed. This was so much better than the towel.

 Just like that he got swayed by the newer, kinder currents of hands, and warmth, and flesh, digits mapping skin that hasn't been kissed by the sun in a long long time, lips that tried to do its job instead. He nearly let himself be pulled under once again, not by a cold and dark ocean but a bright one, loving, when the memory of touch sparked slowly on his mind. It had been a while, hasn't it? He couldn't remember the last time he was touched like that, akin that.

 Except that'd be a lie, because he did remember.

 Flashes of touch, bright, and loud, got thrown into the mix that was his scrambled brain. Flashes of touch, and sex, and death, of holding a man holding him down, holding a gun. Blood dripping down his face blood dripping down from his face. Pulling the trigger. Kissing him. Tasting copper behind his teeth.

 Suddenly the calming contact burned his skin and Alan jumped further into the mattress, shielding his body and face with his arms, feeling shameful under the gaze of the woman he loved so, so dearly.

 "I'm... I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Mortification bloomed on his throat like icy water, replacing the newfound warmth inside of him. "I'm sorry, Alice, I- I..."

 Beyond the shield that were his arms he could see the confusion painting his loved ones' features, and he simply curled tighter when Alice tried to reach for him.

 "Hey," she said, reassuringly, as if talking to a frightened animal, "it's okay, Alan. You're here now, you're safe. We're both safe."

 "Y... yeah, but-" Guilt started dawning of him, of things done over and over again. He remembered now, seeking that same warmth with the one person who pulled him under again and again and loving every second of it. At least until their collaborations went too far, and he got twisted beyond recognition. Playing a sick character on a twisted fantasy.

 He rolled his ring with his thumb, his only real landline back when he could hardly retain anything that wasn't his fucking name. Not that it ended up mattered much, apparently. The feeling of sweat, and blood, and other fluids sticking grossly to his body like a stain he couldn't clean.

 "I... Alice, I cheated. I cheated and I, I've done worse. I've- I've done some terrible things, I-" The Taken didn't bleed, then why did he remembered so much blood on his hands? On his skin? Paired with the utmost certainty that it was all his fault. So much pain and suffering, all of it, he- He didn't deserve this, this love, he-

 Delicate hands grabbed him by the wrists, touch soft, yet firm, as they uncovered his panicked face and then made him look up. Alice held his face unflinching, with an alarming lack of surprise on her features beyond a knowing shadow on her eyes, a light crease on her eyebrows that he so wished to smooth over. Had he already told her that? Instead, she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs before leaning her forehead on his.

 "Alan." Her voice was clear, understanding, yet not lenient. He braced himself for whatever she had to say, already expecting anger, painful words that he could almost remember hearing with her voice, but reality wasn't as indulging. Alice nudged the tip of his nose with hers, the ghost of a smile gracing her features. "You're home. That's all that matters to me. That's all that matters, for now."

 The striking blue of her eyes was blinding and disarming, and as the tension left his body he couldn't help but sob. He felt like choking, but instead of angry tears against the cold wood they met his wife's hands and lips as she kissed his quivering mouth, over and over again before wrapping her arms around him. Alice was trembling too. Feeling her close, so close as she burrowed her face on the hollow of his neck and he clung to her back for the first time in a lifetime, he could easily feel her trembling as he cried.

 Behind the blood drumming loudly on his ears and the sobbing, however, Alan eventually heard a foreign sniffling, and despite the mixed feelings of guilt and death and love and gratitude he raised his gaze enough to look at his friend, sitting on the far corner of the mattress.

 Barry was drying what little was still wet of his face with a hand, looking anywhere but them to give them some space, and with an air of embarrassment. He lingered as if he had the intention to leave but couldn't will himself to do it, and if Alan was being honest, he didn't want him to.

 He couldn't remember more than bits and pieces, but he could remember that he forgot, forgot about Alice, her voice, her face; forgot about Barry, too. He might not deserve them, but he didn't want to forget them ever again, as long as he was alive. With a trembling hand he wrapped his fingers around his shoulder, calling his attention. His puffy eyes met him immediately, and something curious happened.

 He watched Barry watching him, watching Alice, and Alice shifted inside his embrace. Holding his breath and his tears for a second for an old-time sense of pride he could feel an implicit question in the air, and an answer he couldn't catch before his breath got knocked out from him by his friend jumping to join in the hug, throwing them out of balance in the process.

 Alan cried, and laughed, a relieved and wet squeak that somehow found its way around tangled limbs and tangled sheet, a warm cacophony strangled between the two bodies of the people he loved the most, holding him tight.

 Time kept ticking on the real world. Time wasn't a stagnant thing that echoed in it itself, a perpetual night that could last centuries. Here Alan could actually see the way the room changed color as sunlight touched his face, the walls and finally the ceiling, could feel Alice burying herself on her side with leftover fear as the yellow and orange tinge of the air grew darker, as Barry moved around the apartment in quick motion, reassuring him. (Reassuring them?)

 Alan wondered what he was doing, eyes closed sometime ago as the cathartic cry left him weak of mind and body. But as the light behind his eyelids slowly dawned it quickly got replaced by a myriad of colors, and that easily sparked a buried memory. He opened his eyes to christmas lights hanged high around the room.

 "Barry. Really?"

 "What? You never know when you're gonna need them." When he sat on the bed again he was wearing an old band shirt, one that Alan swore seemed familiar. "They actually made a show about that, you know? You have to watch it sometime."

 Alice groaned. Alan smile widened, sleepy yet curious, less so about whatever show his beloved friend was talking about and more about her reaction. Have they had this conversation before? Alice never seemed to be completely at ease when Barry was around, back then, but now...

 Well.

 If Alan had any piece of mind he might have actually been surprised to his own almost complete nudity, and the lesser, yet still surprising amount of skin they both were seemingly comfortable showing around each other, but he was beyond any of that at the moment. Sleep wanting to join their embrace as he clung to consciousness, to the people around him that he didn't want to part with, didn't want to sink back into darkness despite the treacherous yawn that escaped his mouth.

 Around him Barry chucked, and Alice nuzzled the side of his face with a smile that tickled his skin, before cupping his cheek and peppering him with kisses. Alan was too exhausted to answer, humming instead, long and deep. She really wasn't helping... feeling his friend's hand on his hair, starting to mess with it before combing it with his fingers, didn't help either.

 "Hey Al," Barry started, mocking smile tainted by fondness, "have I've ever told you... you remind me of a cat? A big, cranky cat."

 He huffed an indignant noise, bluffing an annoyance that he couldn't muster to feel, not now, with Alice's surprised laugh pressed against his skin.

 "He really does, doesn't he?" Alan wanted to argue, yet he couldn't do more than melt against her hand as it slid down his cheek and beard, mapping the hollow of his neck and collarbone, caressing each and every muscle like a precious thing. The motion sparked on his mind the image of a cat sprawled at length, purring loudly as multitude of hands groomed him. Unfortunately, he saw the resemblance.

 "He's knocked out cold, huh? Can't even defend himself..."

 "Well, he must be exhausted... He's been through... he's been through a lot..."

 "Yeah, no shit... Wait, you-?"

 "Mhm."

 Sighing heavily, he started resigning to his sleeping fate lulled by their voices, only tangentially aware of their conversation. He had been through a lot. He could feel it on his aching bones.

 "How... What was it even-?"

 "It was Hell."

 The silence was deafening, then, prelude of memories being drowned by the drag of skin and the flickering of colored light.

 "I..." The lips on his neck hesitated, before Alice shifted again, laying her head on his chest. "I am sorry, by the way. I really am."

 Pressed at his side he felt Barry tense a bit, and Alan finally, finally croaked, confused at the lingering apology.

 "'bout what?"

 Both heads turned to face him, in unexpected surprise.

 "About..." Alice's gaze jumped between them, before smiling a rather sad smile. "Well, the things I did. And the things I, I had to do. I'm sorry about everything I had to do."

 Alan had no idea what she was talking about, but with the very last bit of strength he slowly shifted and held her even closer to his chest. Nothing she could ever do would be as terrible to warrant such sadness on her eyes. Alice held on tighter, holding her breath.

 At his side, Barry shifted too, eventually. Face now smooshed against an arm that didn't have any more energy to embrace him properly while he wrapped his own around his stomach, like the world's worst giant pillow, before doing something that surprised Alan even in the state he was in. While his arm laid around him his hand reached further, giving Alice's arm a light squeeze before keeping it close by. The reply to that was a simple smile, and a calmer exhale.

 As everything he's seen since he got out of the Dark Place, Alan wondered about that gesture too. He'll have to ask them to fill in the details when they had the time, for he did not trust his own looping and tainted memory. What was real? What was a nightmare, a fabrication, or wishful thinking? He needed to hear it from them. He needed to hear everything.

 But they both waited so much time for him, he could wait some more for them.

 For now, Alan simply laid there inside the embrace of the two people he loved most in the world, bathed in the flickering christmas light. The coming darkness when he finally closed his eyes was dulled by the faint colors, former ache on his bones lulled by the human warmth that surrounded him now. Between feeling the rise and fall of their breathing and hearing their lingering conversations, for the first time in many, many years, Alan Wake was able to sleep in peace.

[noodlecupcakes]

Set three years after the events of Alan Wake's American Nightmare, Alan is still stuck in The Dark Place, inside The Writers Room. His double, Mr Scratch wants him to write a new manuscript but Alan is stubborn and suffering from writer's block. Scratch has a few ideas in mind and tricks up his sleeve to inspire his beloved writer.

This fic is just pure Scratch X Wake porn. Hope you guys enjoy.

[glettokono]

who would win - Dark Presence or Rose Marigold with kalashnikov

[breakfastteatime]

How dare this game call me out like this...

[velvetjune]

“Love Will Hurt” Night Springs DLC promo (Source: Remedy @ alanwake)

[lostinthewoodsomewhere]

Cauldron Lake: 1am (2066 words) by Lost_in_the_Woods_Somewhere Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Alan Wake (Video Games), Control (Video Game) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Saga Anderson & Jesse Faden, Saga Anderson & Polaris Characters: Saga Anderson, Jesse Faden, Polaris (Control) Additional Tags: Post-Alan Wake II: The Final Draft, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post, AWE DLC (Control), might add to this later but here's a little rough exploration of this idea for now!! Summary: Yes, this was stupid, but she trusted her intuition, gift, Paranatural power- whatever people wanted to call it, and that told her things would be a hell of a lot worse if she didn't follow the feeling   In the aftermath of the incident at Cauldron Lake, Saga learns that the dark presence isn't quite done with them yet…

Hello! This is the aforementioned very rough Jesse and Saga scenario I mentioned! It's definitely not perfect, but it's been fun to just explore what I want, trying not to worry to much about making this into a full story!

Hope you enjoy!!

[blessedpictures]

Ho-ho-hello again. Blessed Pictures calling, once again in regards to Fandom Trumps Hate.

In case you missed it, we recently posted the three fics that generous bidders were gifted for donating to charity on behalf of the auction:

You're Still Here - Darling/Jesse slowburn. Darling's trapped in the Dark Place, and turns in his desperation to the only thing he can think of: the Hedron resonance. Or does he? Rated M, no major warnings except for mentions of deaths he experiences whilst in the Dark Place, and gore.

Fickle Visions - Casey/Wake. For years, FBI Special Agent Alex Casey has had the same terrible nightmare. Rated E, warnings for noncon, obsessive stalker shit, drugged sex, catheter sex, choking, brief mentions of self harm and a suicide attempt.

In Voices Only I Hear - Ahti/Female Original Character. A researcher at the Oldest House just knows there's a secret behind that damn television, and she'll do anything to figure it out. Rated E, dubious science, underwater sex and a spot of drowning.

"Gee, Mr Writer, I'd like a chance to bid on an auction for your writing someday." Great news. We'll be participating in the FandomTrumpsHate 2025 auction, as well. Follow @fandomtrumpshate or our posts to find out when and how, and perhaps next year your gift will be on this list.

Happy December. See you next year.

[scrimbum]

NO WAY in hell that this is alan, it literally has to be scratch

[soldateins]

heyyy i want to take a few requests for fanfics and oneshots!!

i write for:

karl heisenberg

alcina dimitrescu

alan wake/mr. scratch

adrian monk

dennis stanton (if *anyone* outside of me knows him and wants a fic i'll be so happy)

elliott from stardew valley

shane from stardew valley

abigail from stardew valley

i can try at other stardew characters too!

astarion ancunin bg3

gale dekarios bg3

[tell-me-a-tale-that-tells]

Little Prey

+18 if you're a minor do not read this

─━━━━━━⊱༻ 🔴 ༺⊰━━━━━━─

Summary:

Scratch finds a prey to play with.

Warnings:

Knife play, roleplay, blood kink, explicit language, explicit sex scenes.

Notes:

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️

Okay, sorry, this is not a thing I usually do and I know it's I'm the tag, but I want to be precise that everything that happens in this fic is staged by Scratch and the girl he picks up, it's consensual even if maybe not so safe, but they're safe and sound at the end!Sorry again, I just want you to stay safe!Love ya!

─━━━━━━⊱༻ 🔴 ༺⊰━━━━━━─

He stalked her for some time, knowing now her route, her habits.

The night is a clear and chilly one, he waits in the dark, and the cold doesn't bother him as he lights up a cigarette.

Smoking is a bad human addiction, such as drinking alcohol but he can't deny it to himself from time to time.

He is that fucker's doppelganger, after all, they like almost the same things.

Almost.

Scratch likes killing above everything else.

He waits some more, the faint red light of the cigarette is the only marker that there's someone in the dark corner, near the rear exit of the building.

The door opens and she steps out, locking it behind her with a key, with her bag on one shoulder she approaches her car.

The prey is about to fall into the trap.

The young woman is trying to start her vehicle, and the headlights flicker before going out.

"C'mon you old girl" he hears her say.

But her car won't start. It simply can't.

Someone must have changed her perfectly working battery with a flat one.

What a pity.

He arrives, casually walking into the parking lot, with stolen keys in hand, and pretending to search for his, he looks at the logo on the keys, Mazda.

He makes sure that she can see him, but he ignores her like he didn't hear the engine failing to start about five times.

She opens the door and shyly calls for him. 

"Excuse me, sorry to disturb you but my car won't start. I don't understand much about this sort of thing. Can you check it, please?" she's so polite and genuine.

Scratch makes his better good guy face, smiles warmly, and accepts to help her, or at least he fakes to do it.

He opens the engine roof and pretends to search for a fault, he finds one because it's the one he puts there.

Convincing her to take her home takes some time, she's a cautious and conscious type of girl, and she knows it's bad to accept a lift from a stranger.

Oh, but he looks so kind, so handsome too.

She rides in the passenger seat, she likes to talk and he listens to her all the time, not missing a word because you can't never know what's useful in the future. 

Knowing if your victim has someone who can look for them if they won't show up or won't come home.

She's alone, he already knows, except for a cat.

The young woman is feeling comfortable he can say by her body language, she's used to talking to strangers with the kind of work she does.

A waitress at a restaurant,  the kind of place where everyone knows everyone and you can expect the same people every day for twenty years straight.

He drives carefully, respecting the segnaletics is fucking boring but he makes an effort for her.

She only gets suspicious when he tells her that he knows a shortcut.

Suddenly the car feels claustrophobic, she eyes the door handle realizing that it won't open until the car moves, there's a tick fog outside and she would get lost in no time if she tried to escape, not knowing where to go.

Scratch begins to have real fun, he can sense her fear and distress but outside she looks calm.

"We should have arrived yet," she tells him.

"It's because of the fog, I can't risk it" he answers and he seems honest, just he's not.

The car slowly enters a parking lot, the gravel under the wheels it's the only sound besides the engine, which stops when Scratch turns the key.

"This isn't my home," she tells him and a dark chuckle bubbles up in his throat.

"Of course, it's not, sweety" he smiles now, but it's not the same as before, it's predatory and wicked.

There's a big neon sign above them "Oceanview Motel & Casino" It says, its old and vintage style and casts an unsettling light on its surroundings.

He gets out of the car, and opens the door for her too, like a gentleman on his first date.

She steps out and he half expects her to run away screaming,  they usually do that or pray to him to take them home, that they won't go to the police.

Scratch is proud of himself because he chose well this time, he likes it when his victims have that false state of calm, she is trying to show him she's not afraid.

Just for the measure, he takes a knife out of his waistcoat's inside pocket, lets it shine, and reflects the red light from the sign.

She doesn't even flinch.

Somehow a small hotel like that one has so many rooms that it is the 666, and he escorts her inside.

The room is very small and dimly lit, there's just a double bed, a drawer, and a weird old TV.

There's a chair too she notices and a rope neatly folded on its seat.

Scratch watches her begin to lose control, she understands now the end she will make.

He imagines her dying alone in a squalid motel room with no one other than her murderer, her blood will stain the old cheap moquette.

Scratch sits on the edge of the bed and cards his fingers through his slicked-back hair, he likes it better that way than the pathetic look his doppelganger has.

That man has no taste. Except for women. 

He rolls up his sleeves even if he knows he will stain his clothes anyway and eyes her sideways. 

She's still like a salt statue, her back pressed against the chipped wooden surface of the door, breathing a bit faster.

"Will you hurt me?" she finally asks.

"Of course, yes" he answers smiling, his white teeth showing up menaciously.

"Are you going to rape me?" she asks again.

He furrows his brows "All these questions...just now? Do you want to ruin my mood?" he sighs, pissed "No I won't,  I'm a killer but I have my fucking limits, you know?"

Scratch sees her tense more than she was before.

"Unless it's what you want" he casually says, checking the sharpness of the knife.

He always liked sharp things, guns are not his style. With those he can kill of course but it is the thrill of finding blood gushing and staining his hands that he's after.

"I could not deny a last wish. I'm an honourable man" he is closer to her now, pushing her more against the door.

"My last wish is returning home" she sobs knowing it's a desire he won't grant.

The blade dances across the delicate skin of her neck "Do you wanna know why I chose you?" he asks, cutting a tin red line that merely bleeds.

She shakes her head, cautiously, the knife is still pointed at her throat.

"Because I just knew you would look so pretty when you're crying. I believe red is your colour, what do you say?" He cuts again, more deeply this time, drawing blood even if not much.

A drop of blood descends to stain her white blouse, and at the same time, tears start falling from her eyes ruining her cheap mascara.

Scratch knows his way with a blade in his hand, he cuts the buttons of her blouse, little pearly white disks that fall into the ground almost without a sound.

He admires her heaving chest, filled with fear and anguish, her pretty round breasts look deliciously soft.

He engraves a small X on one of them and then sucks the blood from it, she squeals as he licks up at the wound and smiles.

He could hear her heart drumming wildly.

"If I let you fuck me, would you let me go?" she suddenly asks, out of breath but full of hope, she feels he's hard against her leg.

"What makes you think that I want you?" he chuckles darkly.

Scratch starts to think about all the things he could do to her and can't decide on a single one to start, he wants to destroy her and ruin her for any other person who might come after him.

Using all her holes and making her make such pretty little noises and screams.

All of a sudden Scratch dumps her on the bed and tears her clothes away from her body,  snapping her panties to pieces with his bare hands.

The young woman doesn't know what to do with her hands, she tries to cover herself, and the moment after she tries to reach for him, to push him away or pull him in.

He remains out of touch, kneeling on the edge of the bed noticing the damn thing is too soft, he slowly removes his waistcoat and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt.

He forces her legs open, finding not much resistance on her part, skin delicate and warm flesh, It gets warmer as his fingers descend from the firm grip on her ankles down to the inside of her thighs.

One look at her face and he discovers that her pretty make-up is ruined by tears streaming down her cheeks, just her lipstick is still on point.

He wishes he could ruin it more pleasantly, like shoving his cock down her throat, but there's no time, he smudges it with his thumb, collecting the red pigment and drawing a line on her lower belly.

"I think...once I'll be inside you I'll reach this point here," he says, looking down at his action.

There's a line from her clit to seven or eight inches above it, she stares at it shakenly and confused and he's sure she doubts his calculations, after all some men lie about this sort of thing. 

He pushes into her, one, then two, then three of his long fingers.

She doesn't protest but he knows that he is starting to create pain, scissoring and scraping at her thighs walls with his blunt nails.

It is so hard to resist that dark little voice in his head that tells him to just start jackhammering.

His fingers leave her softness and he sticks them in his mouth, moaning at the taste.

Having the right amount of time he would eat her out for hours without even getting tired, the sweet flavour could save a starving man.

He fumbles with his zip for a second, shoving his hand into his trousers, dragging his hard cock out.

He rests it on her belly, right above the red line, covering it entirely, he smiles smugly.

Draping himself on her body, he stares attentively at her face while his long length enters her. He's halfway in when the voice in his head wins, he snaps his hips filling her.

Her mouth is moving, she's gasping for air, but nothing comes out.

He's buried so deeply he swears he could feel her heart beating on the tip of his cock and all he wants now it's to rearrange her insides.

The pace Scratch sets is slow but brutal, he withdraws almost completely leaving in just the head, and then slams back in, so hard she can feel the burn of him ripping through her pussy and up to her womb.

He thrusts again and again, each time pushing more of himself into her until the push almost makes her hit her head on the headboard.

As his teeth scrape against her neck, she curls her arm around his shoulder and tightens her body around him, urging him on.

There's merely a moment where they lock their eyes together, lips almost touching, but it's soon over, Scratch hides his face on her shoulder.

She screams when he bites down, drawing blood and severely damaging her skin, which will scar her for sure.

"Ah please, it hurts too much" she sobs but he doesn't know if she is referring to the bite, the iron grip on her hips, or the pussy he's destroying.

"You take it so well. Ah! Did you just get tighter? You dirty little girl" he teases her, his voice rasping and broken by the pleasure.

"Want me to keep talking?" she moans loudly unable to stop herself  "Oh yes you like it. You like having me ramming into your squelching tiny cunt" 

He's not lying, the sound her body makes it's pornographic, her hole so wet that drenched the sheets underneath.

"I'm going to plunge my cum so deeply, you're gonna feel it there for days"

He closes his eyes and releases the first jet of cum, pounding his hips into her hard.

Her walls start to quiver around him and she comes shouting and squirming, head thrashing from side to side and nails buried in the skin of his shoulders.

He doesn't want to stop.

Scratch pulls back and then slams his hips forward, spurt after spurt shooting into her womb, pumping into her, watching her face, and lacing his hand in her hair.

He preserves, enjoying the slick slide of his fluids, fucking out the cum he fucked in a minute prior making it drip down to her other hole.

Her breathing is ragged, and her eyes are glazed over, and unfocused, her legs are still shaking.

Two digits sneak between them, drawing lazy circles on her clit and she tries to push him away, the pleasure mixing with pain once more, she's still too sensitive.

"Please stop, I can't go on" she cries.

"Do you want to leave this place on your legs or in a black plastic bag?" He chuckles darkly, retrieving the knife.

"I...I don't... " she struggles with the words while the blade cuts a long line between her breasts.

"CAULDRON!!" she shouts.

Scratch let go of the weapon immediately, kneeling up with his hands held high near his head.

"Fuck! Are you ok?" he asks.

"Yes, sorry. You cut too deep" she replies.

Scratch finally pulls out, hissing at the sensation of leaving her well-abused hole, gaping and dripping.

He opens a drawer, takes a medical kit, and passes it to her waiting hand "You were about to forget the safeword?" he mocks her.

"It's not my fault you fucked my brain out!" she chuckled and then hissed when the disinfectant makes contact with her wounds.

"You said the same thing last week, I should print it and hang it on the wall" 

Her legs are still spread, bent, and slick with sweat, and Scratch glances between them, and ponders about having a smoke instead.

But he can't resist any longer he lays on his stomach and lowers his head between her thighs, licking her clean, 

when he begins to suck at her clit he feels her hands carding through his dark locks, caressing his scalp.

"Aren't you a big hungry boy?" She giggles "Come here now, I need to rest"

"Cuddles? Really? Shit, you're domesticating me..." He however does as she tells him, rolling to a side beside her, letting her come closer and snuggle against his chest.

"Goodnight little prey, dream of my next hunt" he whispers as she drifts off to sleep.

[king0fcrows]

I’m shipping Alan Wake and Agent Casey in a fucked up psychosexual obsessive “we are relentlessly drawn to each other” way.

Casey: am I real? entangled in this mess by a man selfishly and blindly pulling at fate’s strings? or a creation meant to serve as a means to an end? Do I want to protect you because you look so lost and fragile—or because a thing meant to serve a purpose always desires to do so? How could you be a god and be so fragile?

Alan: From the moment I created you (did I create you? Or was I just seeing you?) I loved you. I thought about you for hours and days and years. I know exactly how you take your coffee and the way you heart aches when you see birds in winter branches and the dark sharp thoughts that slide into your mind in the early hours—I know you as well as my own mind. Now that you’re flesh, how can I not want to hold you? How can I not want to cling to a thing I love in this sea of darkness? How could I bear to be rejected by you—even knowing all you’ve suffered at my own callous manipulations of fate? I know I don’t deserve you or your forgiveness but still I seek it out like eyes seek out light

[tanis-fics]

Monochrome beauty

Thomas Zane wasn't the only person who could shape the dark world around him and the people within it, he knew that, but being caught in the currents of someone else's art was… Interesting, to say the least. To be at the mercy of a muse, for a change.

Pairing: Alice Wake/Thomas Zane ♦ Words: 862

[on ao3] ♦ [on squidgeworld] ♦ [read on site]

 With a startle Alice grabbed her camera faster than she could see what was coming for her, or rather, who was coming for her, curious and delighted. Accustomed to the cozy darkness of the hotel Zane squinted at the bright flash of it, hissing a bit before the strangest of sensations flooded him. In an instant, the vibrant color of his world turned black and white, greys seemingly shying away as the contrast of object and shapes left no ambiguity, and the electricity in the air fizzled into nothing. It felt like holding his breath, as for the first time in who knew how long, he simply couldn't move.

 Frozen in place Zane stared at Alice staring at him. Like an old movie star she moved in this barren land devoid of color like she belonged to it. Or rather, as Zane quickly realized, like it belonged to her.

 Huh.

 She seemed to be in a hurry, her legs ready to bolt yet stuck in place just as much as his, before surprisingly inching closer. Alice looked for something on his face, her frown digging deep lines on her forehead that he so wanted to smooth over. Pretty girl like her shouldn't frown so much. And she was so pretty...

 Alice... Wake. A muse, lovely Alan's muse that couldn't compare to Barbara's (his Barbara's) own majesty, but still had an old fashioned charm to her. Typecasted as the damsel in distress, a spiraling friend, a faltering artist... yet she cunningly stood her ground as she faced him, stuck in time.

 Zane struggled against the invisible restrains without being able to move a muscle. Against her wide gaze, the feeling was exhilarating.

 "It appears you've caught me, dear..." He tried to say, jaw slack and tongue dead, yet the woman in front of him appeared to catch his meaning as she squinted. He wanted to smile, curious, oh so curious about this ability of her. "What will you do to me now?"

 Maybe she heard him. Maybe not. He couldn't tell with the way she refused to dignify him with an answer. Instead, Alice only hesitated a second before raising her hand to touch his face. If Zane could have the ability to do anything he would've gasped, if only for the cinematic feel of the scene. Her touch, cold, on his cheek, on his chin, her grasp cautious yet firm as she maneuvered his face to examine him.

 "Why... why do you look like him? Why do you look like Alan?" She asked, beginning of a cold anger that he guessed didn't see the light of day too often.

 Would it be so hard to believe that maybe Alan was the one who looked like him? A character played by him and brought to life? He wondered for a second before his thoughts crumbled again, against the feeling of touch, and the ache of restrain.

 Is this what it meant to be captured in a still picture? Devoid of color, devoid of context, the derivative memory of a derivative man. Put in a shoebox to be forgotten, to be kept forever in stasis. To be a picture was a cruel existence, and he wanted to shiver, oh, he wanted to shake in fear for the camera to capture his trembling lips and wide eyes as her touch lingered on his skin...

 It would certainly make a pretty scene. His thoughts wondered wild as his body couldn't, thinking of angles and aspect ratios and wistfully wishing for the contact to run deeper. For that snapshot to capture something illicit, for the muse to take full advantage of the medium.

 Alice wasn't strong enough to keep him trapped for a long time, though, he was sure of that, and the fact that she probably knew as well. Despite her control she nervously glanced at the world around her, and he almost wanted to fake his stillness to keep her around when it was over, just to see what she would do. Instead, when she cupped his face in her hands Zane tried to close his eyes, succeeding this time.

 It had been a while since he's been touched like that... A gesture with a character in mind, would it be so terrible for an actor to enjoy it instead?

 Taking a deep breath, Zane could almost smell and feel the blinding whiteness of a blizzard, drops of the blackest ink falling down through it. Was it ink? Was it blood? The monochromatic nature of the medium left it ambiguous. Was he resting? Was he dying? You couldn't know with a picture.

 When he opened his eyes, Alice was gone, and the drained color slowly arose again like an arctic spring. He sighed, a bit disappointed.

 Oh well.

 Zane could only hope to find her again in the twisting corridors of the hotel.

 In the ever so dark forest.

 At the bottom of the ocean itself.

 For now, all he could do was to fix himself a drink in preparation, awaiting excitedly for his opportunity to capture her living picture, to direct her movement with acute precision and to see her face in beautiful technicolor.

[noodlecupcakes]

Chapter 2 is here!!!!

Set three years after the events of Alan Wake's American Nightmare, Alan is still stuck in The Dark Place, inside The Writers Room. His double, Mr Scratch wants him to write a new manuscript but Alan is stubborn and suffering from writer's block. Scratch has a few ideas in mind and tricks up his sleeve to inspire his beloved writer.

This fic is just pure Scratch X Wake porn. Hope you guys enjoy.

[midnightswaltz]

Scenes I Need Out of My Head But Probably Won't Go Anywhere Soon

"So…you don't know this Lucanis?”

"My answer isn’t going to change from the last time.”

"I find it hard to believe from your relationship with Viago and Teia that you hadn’t at least met the man.”

Rook rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, Lucanis Dellamorte & I had a decade long love affair, which ended tragically when I was exiled by his disapproving grandmother.” She turned to the mage guiding the gondola. “That was a joke, to be clear.”

The mage snorted & flashed her a smirk from under the hood. "She would’ve just had you killed.”

Fair point. Rook turned back to Neve. “Viago & Teia are Talons. Whatever our relationship, doesn’t translate into my getting to be on a name basis with the presumed heir to the First Talon.”

The boat slipped with barely a ripple under the Caldero Street Bridge. The reflection of top of the Cantori Diamond rippled in the dark canal waters. A faint memory sparked. “Now that you mention it, I was wrong before. I did speak to him once. I bumped into him - literally - at the Diamond. Spilled my drink all over my favorite shirt. We exchanged apologies and moved on. I guarantee he had no idea who I was before I was exiled, and will have no idea who I am when we find him.”

"But you saw him? Yes. Maybe you were a face in the crowd to him, but he was someone of note. And you are someone who notes people.”

"Okay, sure. Why?”

"What was your impression of him?”

Rook sighed. Yes, Lucanis Dellamorte wasn’t an unfamiliar face in the Diamond, or even occasionally at House De Riva, but he was usually with the other two Dellamortes, speaking with Viago or Teia. Meetings she was not invited to. She tried to pull the odd memories of him, but they were more than two years old and vague. She remembered a calmness and three little spots over his eye but little else. "Quiet.”

"’Quiet’?”

"I don’t know what you want from me, Neve. He was quiet. I guess shy, maybe. I didn’t know him. If Teia and Viago respected him, he was a good man and a good Crow. That was all I needed to know.”

"So Caterina sends you, an impulsive and unpredictable exile, to find her lost grandson.”

"Us. She sent ‘us’. I think if she wants me dead or out of the way, there’s easier ways than digging up her beloved grandson for some weird-ass ruse.

"You think she still wants you dead?” Bellara’s eyes grew wide.

"I mean, if she’d ever wanted me dead, I probably would’ve heard about it. I was with the Veil Jumpers for a year. You know we’re often alone for days in Arlathan. It would have been very easy to send one of her Crows. But if she ever did send anyone they got chewed up by Arlathan without me knowing.”

Rook considered the possibility for a moment. Caterina Dellamorte was a legend of her own. No matter what plan Rook had disrupted, she probably would have felt it beneath her to have her killed. At the very least, the First Talon would have expected it to be House De Riva's responsibility to deal with her. “No, she believed what she was saying. She thinks he’s alive down there & she expects me to burn down an underwater prison to get him out.”

[velvetjune]

Rose: what’s a nice affirmation i can write for the hero that’s not ominous or foreboding in any way

Alex Casey lunchbox note: Remember, Alan is always watching :)

Rose: Perfect