#zanewake

[switchyfox]

Loop gone wrong

[tanis-drawings-2point0]

thought a lil bit too hard about alan and zane like that one ds9 scene and blacked out, anyway,

[atreiides]

I can't get over that scene guys. you know which one I'm talking about

pairing: Alan Wake/Thomas Zane rating: 18+ word count: 973 warnings/kinks: restraints, dirty talk, masturbation, memory issues

"We've done this before, remember?" Tom says, cracking a welcoming smile as he lies through his teeth to push further. For some reason, Alan trusts the smile more than the words.

[oozeandgoo-art]

Got my Zane/Wake charm from Vograce today! I'm not obsessed with it, so I probably won't be going through with making more.

(1st taken in fluorescent light, 2nd with a flashlight 3rd with a homemade attempt at a lightbox)

I think Vograce's charms just generally look better if they're brighter and have more saturated colors. This doesn't play to their strengths. It does look an awful lot like a film slide, that's just nit compelling me enough personally.

If you're interested in the charms and really really want one, leave a comment or something - I can see about getting a handful made - but this doesn't seem like it'll be worthwhile to go ahead and try to sell multiples of to me lol

Looks cool on my wall of (mostly not made by me) charms though.

[veikkoalen]

ACT 6 3 SCENE 8 – TAKING CARE

description: EDITED: DOUBLE CHECK THE NUMBERS

words: 214

author's note: zane, wake, scratch. except there are not that many characters here. dedicated to @thelivingautomaton for writing the play i love dearly for being absurd and understandable and amazingly written of course ! <3 <3 <3

on ao3

Pitch-black room illuminated by the light from unknown sourse in the middle. Outlines of the mantelplace and the painting above it can be made out from the darkness. TOM and WAKE are slowly swaying in the centre. The song is in foreign language, barely legible through the static, plays as accompaniment by the radio on the mantelplace.

WAKE: Good we finally have some time to talk.

WAKE pulls away a little, to look TOM in the eyes.

WAKE: It's a shame we couldn't discuss it earlier. You're busy, I know.

WAKE cups TOM's cheek, both gazing lovingly at each other.

WAKE: Just want to say, you did wonderfully with your hero role. Loved every second of your interpretation.

TOM's gaze shifts. WAKE rolls his eyes.

WAKE: No, i'm not salty about being a villain, anymore. The drama, the contrast, I get it, now. I think I did a decent job. You asked me to it, anyway. And I did it, because of you.

WAKE puts his head on the TOM's shoulder, lowering his voice.

WAKE: I just... just wanted some... feedback, you know? A little thing. Like...

WAKE presses his head into TOM's neck. The tie, hastly wrapped around the latter's neck,

WAKE: I need you, too, Scratch.

comes loose. ALAN's head falls down.

[literatehiss]

Missed Connection

Zane wakes up to an empty bed. Once upon a time that wouldn't be unusual, but he was rather used to waking up next to his beloved scientist. He sets out to find him before something bigger and nastier scoops Casper up instead. Read on AO3 here

Zane wasn't a fan of leaving his apartment. He was safe in 665, which couldn't be said for anywhere else in the Dark Place. Room 665 was his domain. Not even Alan could really hurt him in there; reality just a suggestion, just a draft that he could edit and reshoot as many times as his heart desired. Sure, he made little excursions out, especially when he heard that there might be something, or someone, new out there. But that wasn't the reason why he had stepped out of his safe haven today.

He had lost his Darling.

He wasn't sure how he'd lost the other man. He had fallen asleep next to Casper after a night of passion, and when he had woken up, the man was gone. Now if this was Alan, he wouldn't be shocked; he never stayed for long, always trying to escape. New plots, new characters, new drafts to write. But Darling was a little more permanent, rarely leaving and never straying from the boundaries of the Oceanview Hotel.

Zane and the Hotel had an understanding. If Darling was still here, the hotel would have let him know. Their little deal was that Zane would lure people to the building and the Hotel would keep their prey here. Now, Zane was fond enough of Darling to not consider him prey (anymore), but the deal still stood. If anything, the Oceanview shouldn't have let him leave at all. Normally only those like Zane and Alan could get in and out without assistance.

Which made Zane think that maybe someone had taken Casper. He couldn't blame them; Darling was so very precious, but the scientist belonged to him, and he didn't appreciate people taking his things. So now here he was, storming across the rain-sodden streets to the only person he could reliably find.

Zane did not like Door.

He didn't like being in his presence, didn't like being in his studio. It was like being watched by a hungry wolf, and Zane preferred to be the one doing the hunting around here. He could never get a read on Door, never sure if his friendliness was a mask or his anger just a joke. He just couldn't trust anything the man said or did, and half of Door’s words were riddles upon riddles.

It did give Zane perspective on how frustrated and confused he must make other people. Not that he was going to change his own behaviour; he had far too much fun.

Door was sitting at his desk, sipping a coffee, looking like he was waiting for Zane to arrive. With the knowledge Door had at his fingertips, he probably was. Zane didn't fit in here. Alan did, in that suit of his, all neat and proper. Door probably wished that Zane would put a shirt on.

Door peered at him over the rim of his mug.

“Hello Tom. What brings you here to my humble studio? If you're looking for Wake, you just missed him. A shame, I would love to have the both of you on my show.”

Hmm, Zane was sure that Door would love that, but he considered himself a man for film, not television. If Zane's domain was his apartment, the studio was Door’s, which meant that every second here was a risk that Zane could not afford.

“No, not today I’m afraid! I'm looking for a scientist, Dr. Casper Darling. We've been working together, but someone has taken him. I don't suppose you know where he is?” Zane, despite his trepidation at being near Door, let his power flicker and whirr around him. A blatantly unsubtle threat, not that he could even begin to hurt Door here; he’d likely struggle even in his apartment. But despite his smile and casual demeanour, he needed Door to understand just how serious he was about Darling going missing.

Door raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I haven’t seen your doctor, I have better things to do quite honestly, Thomas.”

“Oh really? Because there aren’t many people who can enter the Hotel freely, even less who can enter my apartment. Maybe I should go talk to Breaker, maybe your little pet project would be more willing to help me.”

Zane could feel the floor beneath him buckle and took an instinctive, unsteady step back as Door stood up.

“You are pushing your luck. Get out, Casper Darling is not here, and you had better hope he never finds himself in my studio.”

Zane didn’t wait for Door to finish his sentence; he was already across the room and crashing through the double doors. Cast out of Door’s studio, Zane fled back into Alan’s twisted version of New York. He hated it here; it wasn’t the sort of place he would set a story, especially not as important as one that could potentially free him from the darkness.

But unfortunately, this wasn’t one of his beautiful films; it was Wake’s godawful horror that he was stuck in—unceasing, unrelenting rain included.

As terrible as it might have been, Zane really was banking on Door having his Darling because now he had no clue who could have him. He cautiously peered into Breaker’s latest hideout, careful to seem nonthreatening so as to not provoke Door’s ire, no sign of Darling, just a startled sheriff who seemed to think he was Alan. Tom wandered the streets, soaked through. His hair lay limp and stuck to his face, his trousers were even more glued to his legs than usual, and his jacket was too thin to provide any protection at all. No wonder Breaker thought he was Alan; he had never looked so much like the writer. Zane checked the cinema and the construction site, parliament tower was abandoned—cold and quiet—he even went to room 666 to see if Scratch had made off with his beloved Casper.

He felt cold, colder than he had ever felt since he cast himself into the lake, as he made his way back to his apartment. His skin chilled from the rain and his heart frozen with fear, heavy with grief.

But as he stood outside his apartment, he could hear voices. They could have been confused for the same voice talking to itself, as similar as they were. But Zane was very familiar with both of these voices, having spent long hours talking to them both. He took a calming breath, composed himself. A flicker of overexposed film and his clothes shifted into something drier, something that would catch Darling and Wake’s eyes. It never hurt to up his chances, especially with both of his favourite people cosied up in his room. He fluffed up his hair and tried to make it look like he hadn’t spent the last god knows how long running around frantically.

Pushing open the door with a smile, the two men inside his room looked at him in surprise.

“Tom! We were wondering where you had wandered off to!” Darling strode up, curling a hand around the back of Tom’s neck and pulling him down into a filthy kiss. Zane hummed into Casper’s mouth, wrapping his arms around his Darling, enjoying the other man’s warmth and presence.

Darling stunk of whiskey, and Alan was cradling an almost empty bottle of Campari while a lit joint was held limply in his free hand. He took a long swallow from the bottle while Zane watched. Alan was laid back in his bed, the sheets still rumpled from where Darling had been laid next to him moments before. He hadn’t even needed to be here to convince Alan to loosen up. Truly Darling was something else to relax Alan so easily.

Zane pulled back from the kiss, hooking his chin over Casper’s shoulder as he hugged him close to his chest, which allowed him to look over at Alan as he bared his teeth in something that could only just be confused for a smile.

“Been keeping my Darling company for me, have you?”

Alan, drunk as he was, didn’t hear the threat that coloured Zane’s tone.

“Yeah,” Alan slurred, “Casper’s nice.”

Wake certainly didn’t think that Casper was nice the last time he had been here with them, but the writer probably couldn’t remember that loop. Likely for the best, Zane would never be able to get him to do anything if he could actually remember what the filmmaker had done to him before.

But it did assure Tom that Alan hadn’t been up to anything nefarious, had likely come looking for him and found Casper exploring the halls instead. But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to find the pair.

“Hmm, he sure is, isn’t he? Did you take him somewhere, Alan? I was very worried to wake up without him. It’s dangerous out there.”

Alan nodded along; it was very dangerous out there, Zane was right.

“Was talkin’ about the places outside the hotel and mentioned Mirror Peak Bar. Was only there for a little bit. I think he picked something up for you? Might have drunk it though, I can’t remember. S’rry.”

It was entirely possible that Zane had only missed them by a few minutes then, leaving Oceanview for Door’s studio only just before these two returned to the apartment.

Darling ran his hands gently up Tom's back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of the jacket; he leaned in to plant soft kisses on Zane's cheek. The gesture was tender, filled with a sense of intimacy that lingered in the air. With a playful urgency, Zane began to guide Casper backwards, until his Darling felt the mattress beneath him. He was lowered onto the sheets, landing beside Alan, who was already comfortably sprawled out.

Darling, with his shirt partially unbuttoned, offered a glimpse of his torso, while his boxers hung low on his hips. Wake had chosen to leave his shirt behind entirely, revealing the soft lines of his body.

He moved up to the bed and crawled towards the pair, grabbing a hold of Wake’s hair and dragging him over to his Darling. A soft touch to his cheek nudged Casper into initiating a kiss, Alan acquiescing easily to Zane’s manhandling and Casper’s enthusiastic affection. They clearly hadn’t just been drinking while he had been gone.

He couldn't help but stare at his two handsome men. Maybe he'd let Alan off the hook without punishment this time for taking Darling outside without permission. After all, Alan's intentions were good—he was just trying to help. But as Zane watched them, he felt a shiver run down his spine and his breath caught in his throat. Casper was holding Alan tight, his hands grasping his ass, and he was rutting against him with an unmistakable hunger.

Yes, Tom thought, he could just manage to forgive him.

Just this once.

[switchyfox]

Another loop. Alan doesn't feel so good when he visits Thomas Zane, but Zane can make everything better.

Things go as they always do. Or do they?

Alan Wake/Thomas Zane with references to Alan Wake/Alice Wake.

I suggest playing Cocaine Man by Baxter Dury on loop while reading this one.

(cw: hurt (almost) no comfort, implied alcohol and drug use, minor violence, vomiting)

Also available on Ao3 | (1.6k words)

A bang. The light. The floor. My blood spilling. The room spinning. The loud ticking of my old typewriter. Words of ink pressed onto white paper.

Rinse, repeat.

The memories fade already. Dreams half remembered. Were they even dreams? Hard to say.

No time to waste.

Echoes of my steps on the cold and wet pavement of a nearly empty New York City. Buildings looming over me, not quite where they belong. Shadows that hiss as I pass them. The echo of a payphone ringing in the distance. I know I need to take the call, so I drag my feet to the lit up booth. I feel uneasy as my shaky hand grabs the receiver but as always, I reluctantly pull it to my ear.

His voice. Smooth and familiar. We exchange the same words as always. I remember. Fantastic. A hint of deception. Grab the key. It's always here. Come to the hotel. He's always there.

I hang up. Turn around. Sigh.

A moment of inattention. The ghostly grip of a hand around my throat, pushing me back. I hit the ground. The shape blends with the rest of the shadows before I even have time to shine my flashlight at it. I get back on my feet, the thick fabric of my suit sticking to my skin. I grumble under my breath and sigh, again. What does it matter anyway. I get back on track and make a bee line to Oceanview hotel. I remember this time. I've been remembering more lately. I must have been stuck here for a while, repeating the same steps over and over until they became a routine, muscle memory. I try not to let the thoughts linger.

Wooden double doors. Red carpet. Silent elevator. Sixth floor. Room 665. Neighbour of the Beast.

Thomas Zane is as intense yet enigmatic as ever. I'm tired and confused as always.

It's like all my memories of our previous encounters didn't pass the threshold with me. Was there something about this room that set it apart from the rest of the Dark Place? Why did I always feel so helpless here, so out of control, like I did on Mr. Door's talk show?

Aren't I the writer of these interludes?

A hand on my shoulder. Warm, grounding. A smile beaming at me. The bright light of the diver.

"Alan, Alan... You need to stop losing yourself so much."

The uncomfortable feeling of my pants, not quite dry yet, catches my attention again. Zane must notice it, too, because he glances down and nods knowingly.

"Let's get you comfortable first, shall we?"

I'm not sure how it happens, but next thing I know, my pants feel fresh out of the dryer, and I'm sitting on the sofa next to the film-maker.

"Good. Now you can get out of your pretty little head. Relax."

I feel myself nodding. Relaxing sounds good. When was the last time I relaxed? I can almost taste the subtle aftertaste of orange juice and rum on my tongue, followed by a hint of bile. It's gone with the blink of an eye, like words scratched out on a manuscript.

Instead, there is a fresh drink in my hand. An orange cocktail. The weight of it feels familiar. Does Tom always serve me one when we meet? I take a sip while he talks. He talks a lot. Half rehearsed monologue, half genuine conversation. A tune I can't quite recognise plays softly in the background. Orange juice and rum flow down my throat, making me warm inside out.

He leads the conversation, and I follow.

Bands I used to listen to. Bands I've never heard of. Movies I'm familiar with. Movies that barely sound real. Books I've seen on my shelves. Books I don't remember writing.

He leads the scene, and I act.

I don't notice when my glass is emptied and when it is refilled, but every so often I'm aware that it's not my first drink anymore. It comes and go in a blur, but I can feel the taste of something else on my gums, on my tongue, the smell of it in my nose. I recognise the traces of vices I indulged in long ago, but they don't feel like distant memories like they should. It's becoming harder to follow.

"How is the writing going, Alan?"

A cold shiver runs down my spine and I can feel the shadows lurking in the darkest corners of my mind spread through my entire body. Memories of the writer's room come flooding. I suddenly feel like I'm forced to watch myself on one of these TVs that only ever play the most unsettling videos of myself as I pass them by. Crazy eyes, shaky voice, irrational ramblings, body shaking on the ground as tears roll down my cheeks... I don't want to remember these. I don't want to think of them. I don't want to think of what happens there. What happened. What will happen? It never goes anywhere good, I'm just trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped...

"Alan."

His tone is more serious now, almost concerned, and I snap out of my trance as our eyes cross.

He changes the soundtrack, and the mood changes.

Got up, cup of coffee, went down nice, didn't it?

Made me feel a bit moodkey

Then I stood up straight and proud, and I knew I was a man

Thought "Mama, ya done me proud"

"Care for a dance?"

I don't reply but I find myself on my feet, pulled against his warm body, as we sway drunkenly to the rhythm of the music. I haven't danced in ages. I haven't been so close to someone for about as long. It feels strange to hold someone the same height as me, the same build as me, the same eyes as me. I try to hold his gaze but it drifts down. When did he lose his blazer? I can feel him grinning. He's saying something but I don't understand. The music is too loud all of a sudden.

Here comes the cocaine man

Here comes a man

We wear friendly smiles

All night

Get bladdered on Lucifer's grain

Pray it never stop

Here comes the cocaine man

Here comes a man

His hands are keeping me close and steady ; one holding my own, long fingers not quite intertwined, the other is on my back, flat between my shoulder blades. It fills me with warmth and I absent-mindedly shuffle even closer. For a moment, I forget where I am, who I am, floating in an ocean of static.

Crash bang, when I meet her, she's beautiful, she is

She stands alone, not caring who's looking

I get lost in my mind again, the repetitive beats and rifts of the song carrying my thoughts. Memories of Alice. The first time I laid my eyes on her. The last time I saw her. The laughs we shared. The tears we cried. The nights we stayed up for each other. In this moment it's almost like I can reach her again. Like she's right here, with me, cradling me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, comforting me like she always did so well. My free hand glides up the bare expense of her back, my fingers dancing along her spine, reaching her delicate nape. She tilts my chin up with her slender finger and her soft lips press onto mine. I bury my hand into... dark curls..?

Her name's Rebecca Trollop, and I fall right into her trap

But that's not her hair. That's not her lips. That's not her body. That's not her perfume. He's not Alice.

Bang, it's disgusting

The spell breaks and I take a step back like I've been burnt, my chest heaving. I don't look at his face, I can't focus on anything. The room is spinning, everywhere I look is blurry, and when he reaches out to me and calls my name, I punch him. My knuckles come in contact with his jaw and the crack of his bones is louder than it should be. I didn't hit that hard. There is no way something broke. I don't do this anymore. I promised her I wouldn't do it anymore. My ears ring and I stumble, the back of my foot bumps against something and I fall on my ass. I curse. Why is my typewriter here? Pages litter the ground. Did I write anything tonight? I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. The room is spinning faster and I feel sick. My eyes shut close.

I don't rest on the ground for long. At least I assume it isn't long before his hands are on me again, and I take a peak when he attempts to pull me up. His voice sounds distant although I can see how close his face is to mine. My brain feels sluggish and my body feels heavy and I can't get up. I feel so sick. He walks away, somewhere, around, he's back, right behind me, and his long arms wrap around my torso as he forces me up, holding me close to his chest again. He drags me like I'm a life sized doll, or a corpse to discard, away from the bedroom, far from the light and the warmth and into the dark and the cold, and I let him.

I feel it coming up.

He barely has enough time to help me kneel next to the toilets before I start gagging.

The chorus plays once more, it echoes in the main room as I empty my guts inside the lavatory.

He's gone. He was never here. I'm alone.

The tiles under my knees are cold like the pavement outside. The tears rolling down my cheeks are warm like her kisses.

There is no one to pet my messy hair as I sob.

I hope he kisses me again next time we meet. I'll be better.

[atreiides]

pairing: Alan Wake/Thomas Zane rating: sfw word count: 542 warnings/kinks: technically thats an affair, kissing

The Dark Place knows what Wake needs. In a mocking display of caring, the path leads him to the nearest hotel, up the stairs, past the whispering shadows and to a single room where the lights never go out. He knocks. He waits, not very long. "Oh," Zane exhales in genuine surprise, then quickly ushers the writer in.

[veikkoalen]

The Dark Doppelgänger in the Art and Life of Thomas Zane

word count: 346

description: being yourself, being someone else. we both have things to hate

characters: thomas zane, alan wake

author's note: just realized it has a weird structure, ending up wake-centered while being about zane. well, remedybane. being wake-centered. also true to the name of the fix xd. contains blood and a single act of face licking

on ao3

you woke up with the photo in your hands. black and white. a woman. and a man in the diver suit. they must be smiling. you don't remember. you always ripped their faces along with the paper they were printed on.

you came back to your feelings in front of the mirror. same shape. same blues. same fucking face on every surface, in your films, in your head, in your own damn bed. you always turned away, unable to stomach his gaze burning through you.

this time, you gifted the mirror your clenched fist.

you weren't trembling, your hair were. you were real. the original. you came first, signed and sealed. you knew this since the day of birth. you clenched the shards in hands, boring them deeper. you felt the pain, not him. with each passing loop, you hated his guts more and more. with each passing loop, you wanted to rip his – your – own face apart.

you stumbled away from the bathroom.

the writer woke up with the weight on his chest. his hand landed on the head of hair. it was sticky. took wake a while to come back to his feelings, remember where he was. or why one's hair can feel this disgusting.

"zane? you're bleeding? what's going —?" – arms around him squeezed all the air out of the lungs.

the growling in his ear. "just fucking hug me."

alan obeyed. alan felt coldness on his neck. rising higher, grazing his cheek. meeting his lips. alan tasted salt. alan tasted blood.

bile rose to his throat.

"get the fuck away from me, you pervert!" – wake ripped himself away from the man, rushing, stumbling to the exit door. – "leave me alone!" wake was scared. shocked. in denial.

wake didn't notice how he got on his knees, mop of hair in zane's palm. wake winced when his head was yanked upwards. director's gaze burning through him. mutilated palm cupping his cheek.

"you never escape. you won't escape. please. let me comfort you, my dear."

gore staining his beard.

wake was terrified.

he liked its taste.