#halonocturne writing

[veikkoalen]

amalgamation/storytelling

scratch x reader; gender unspecified

word count: 311

author's note: vague 👍 god i hope it's understandable enough

on ao3

he didn't fucking like that. when stripped of control, even hobbies don't bring that much satisfaction. the thing – refusal to associate it with any human ties it had/used to have – snorted in the chair.

"savoring the feeling. being in control. blood..." – inhale, spit out, – "trickled down their chins, staining the white."

another blow to the jaw made him/it see white. stopped grinning long ago – tiring, not exactly enjoyable anymore. why the fuck would it even continue with all that? hated to admit – wake was far more thrilling: kicking back, squirming, running around his little cage he called new york. this? felt like punching a talking plushie with dying batteries.

dropped the head. dead? fuck, he hoped so. unclenched the fist, two fingers to the neck.

"glad for turning me into a clerk, honey?" – hands framing the face. the thing semi-conscious, smiling. wiped the blood from under the nose.

these 'sessions' dragged for longer with each loop – his goal, achieved each time. turning into a chore. oh how he strived for the corruption, to twist, break, stretch, tear this thing back when it was still human, still alive, obeying the rules of the hunt, loop. and now, wanting to dig his talons into anything but the flesh he has already learned by heart.

"scratch hated it," – barely heard, wheezing, lack of air, – "hated it, hated it, hated it, hated it for leading, giving in or up, voice growing with newly found rage and eager– ness, enjoying, following the script, reaching, melding, being one of the same! head jerking upwards, right in the eyes, the quote—"

hands lowering. mouth shut, good riddance.

"let's not spoil the ending, baby."

squeezing motion. period of time unspecified. kick. drop. scream. corner to corner. scream. untie the ropes. wipe blood from his/its face. discard. recite. rinse and repeat.

he fucking hates being connected.

[veikkoalen]

you will escape and we will never escape

alan wake x reader

words: 147

on ao3

the fight is finally over. alan steps into the many-doored well-lit room. 

you're here, waiting for him, as always. feet dangling from the granite table. 

–i'm cold. 

the writer looked around.

– the heater's on. it's suffocatingly hot in here, what's wrong, honey?

your voice small. 

–i don't know.

wake reaches for your hand, taking it into his burning palm, rubbing circles on the back of yours.

–better?

the back of your greying palm.

–thank you.

caressing your waxy skin.

–no problem.

your hand traveling higher, rigidly, painfully slow, reaching the tears. steadily pulling closer.

–i'm okay.

your sweet solace in the dark place, writhed in pain, hunched over in an embrace over your body, melting away under the sobs and shudders and the endless pain he sees ahead of him.

you accompanied him in life,

–i won't leave you here alone.

now he accompanies you in death.

divider link

extra notes:

0. living through grief is fucking hard 1. granite table in question https://stalkers.info/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/mor-2017-12-13-06-768x432.jpg 2. the "doors" are from the morgue refrigerators 3. well-lit because i have an image of the room being heavily yellow-tinted. soviet morgue room but with the yellow filter 4. alan says it's "suffocatingly hot" because he can't breath from guilt/grief

[veikkoalen]

heat death

majima x reader

words: 168

on ao3

–burn in hell.

–baby i told you it's cold in here.

–it's always about you, – you turned, unable to contain the happiness. he looked almost apologetic, but his devilish glimmer in the eye gave away the usual self. you brought the cigarette back.

–so... we settled in?

–ahh... –

your man got sent into a violent fit of cough, darting his crazed eye on you.

–whaaa!? what are you doooing!?

you laughed till your heart bled.

–thought the smoke might warm you up.–

i forgot your lighter. – the cap clicked in the pocket. with all the feelings you have been drowning in you thought your head would erase the path to protect you, – to return it, i mean. forgot. to put into the.

coffin.

you lighted the flame.

you stared at the light till your eyes hurt.

you aimed higher in the sky.

.

.

the metal hit the stone somewhere away.

–take it yourself then, p–

fucking prick, to torture you like that.

you choked on your tears.

dividers

extra notes:

no characterization xdd i just want to turn likeable guys into ghosts. btw i had yakuza 0 goro in mind but this one kinda feels more like a mad dog already so whatever the japanese funeral tradition of passing the bones with the chopsticks after the cremation unnerved me

[veikkoalen]

the dead of night

summary: a rerun of my own private snuff movie, a memory of my corpse, echoed in your head as you stuffed the bleeding ghost of a man into your car.

author's note: @cannabis-snake : #people should draw more of their self inserts hugging/comforting max#it's good for your mental health but what if. what if i also wrote about it

on ao3

your shoulders squeezed in a death grip. a bloodied body on the pavement. the skeleton of a man lying in your bed. everything today was about death, you mentally concluded.

you couldn't just leave him here, in the snow (bile rose to your throat), buried. lucky this time. leather and denim caked with blood and grime and fucking pills on the floor of the car and now you smelled like gunpowder – the man whimpered. "oh, sorry." you lifted the hands from his freshly scratched back.

how has he survived all that at all? he was surprisingly lightweight. you felt like scolding him in the morning for relying a bit too much on the car's warmth. you couldn't ignore the possibility of the skull fracture. you didn't want to think about cuddling with a corpse.

how he ended up like this? beaten to half-death and starved to the other half. you could imagine him tied to a chair, enduring several rounds of bat swings. maybe, the last one was too little to kill him? what he would think when he wakes up? you only read such things in the cheap crime novels you wasted your time with on the shift.

will he try to leave to faint at the door? or maybe stay and let you nurse him back to health. or you could kiss and live happily ever after, you snorted.

you rolled on your back to turn off the nightstand lamp, the body tagging along with you, now lying on your chest. he was crying. in awful, terrible shape in general, he was trembling, muttering something under his breath (nauseatingly familiar). you smoothed his spiky hair, again and again, till the shiver eased, even if just for a little.

"it's okay honey, i'm home." you slurred, slipping into a deep slumber.

you dreamed of blood and clouds.

[veikkoalen]

wake writes an ending

words: 454

description: he put the words in a shoebox. it put the words in him.

author's note: there are so many references! i loved writing it so much. do reply me if you want to say something <3

mentions of suicide, murder and also, spoilers to the alan wake 2 plot!

on ao3

time – overlapping, bending, pursuing with a sole goal of reminding: you are a drowned corpse. sinking you to the deeps of the bottomless ocean, to be claimed forever.

you fucked up your chance to be happy lifetimes ago. sunsets and sunrises traded for a searing white light of a lightbulb in your palm. hunted for sport by your own reflection. sealed away from the only person who made you whole.

pushing through the masks, lies, posh furniture, through the comfort of madness till your fingers reach the surface.

have you always been drenched in blood? you wish you could say it's a recent addition, but you don't remember the blood trails ever being fresh.

you can only pray your efforts were not in vain. god, how many messages have you sent over a fucking decade? the answers would have thrown you into a fit of rage.

giving the agency to the characters was a dire mistake. what the fuck is wrong with zane's story? he can't be the creator, fuck no, fuck him! you're the only one allowed to shape the reality!

film scratches.

the house no longer feels empty.

he praises you, like you even deserve existence. he crawls under your skin, digging deeper, slashing, bludgeoning, ripping, molding you to his image.

all it took is the change of perspective for the mask to crack. you have never been changed. you have always brought change according to your image. wake would try to be the writer/poet/murderer at least once.

note: scratch paragraph the fuck out

you've contemplated it so many times, took attempts, got dragged from the other side – distant glimpses of life you can't bear to remember. yet, he still praises you, like you haven't killed yourself by drowning.

"he once mistook the ocean for the lake." and here you are, mistaking a spiral for a loop. maybe, you deserve to be a broken record.

you write and write and write the life away, without noticing that the ink is no longer black.

anything to escape. there must be victims in a horror story.

maybe you'll stop feeling like a monster if you keep chanting it over and over again.

the culmination is due. the door in the room is open wide.

you are home. you finally accepted that we've always been home. a murderer based on a director based on a writer.

or was it vice versa?

i lifted the page and read that i lifted the page and read that i lifted the page and read that i lifted the page and read

a happy ending we have always deserved.

everyone loves us.

everything revolves around us.

we are one.

he murdered your wife.

you finally don't wake up.

[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.

[veikkoalen]

confluence

word count: 367

summary: he wore your name like a trenchcoat. trenchcoats are not exactly bulletproof.

characters: alex casey, saga anderson.

author's note: one al*n w*ke mention in case casey reads it. divider by @firefly-graphics (this one)

on ao3

you are alex casey. sadly, that's the first thing said casey remembers after waking up, skin sticky from cold sweat and knuckles white from squeezing the pillow. the dream refused to fade away. the dream, where alex casey was lying on the pavement, clutching to his side. god, he needed to take a shower.

"fucking..." – the bed creaked as alex sat on the edge and pushed up – falling to the ground from the jolt of pain. oh. i'm not that old. casey reached for the lamp switch. click!

"shit!"

the shout ripped saga away from the mind place. what? alex? nightmare? assault? damn case. she was already by the door.

"casey? you okay?" – gentle knocking didn't help. was he even awake? are you imagining again, saga? then he won't find out. she twisted the knob, taking the flashlight from the hip holder. casey's hair poking from behind the bed, heavy panting pulsating through the eardrums. there, leaning on the side of the bed, saga found her world painted red.

"fuuuuuck!"

casey struggled to open his eyes. he must have slipped out of consciousness – trauma pad already pressed very tightly against his abdomen. their eyes met.

"you taste blood?"

"no."

"what happened?"

fucking writer.

"wake shot me."

"what!?"

"in a dream. he shot me in a dream." – anderson's eye twitched, lips parted, but she rammed the curses back down her throat. the pang to the man's heart was almost as painful as to his stomach. he grunted. corners of his mouth jerking up.

"i think this case is closed for me, anderson."

by the size of saga's eyes (and momentary change in pressure) alex judged he didn't think on his words enough. the lights started bleeding onto themselves.

"i love you so much." silence chewed on her.

"i hate myself too."

casey slipped out.

"the otter side?"

"i didn't choose the cover! i know it sounds terrible."

"you really want me dead, anderson."

"i want you to learn how to joke, not how to bleed on me to death."

she could see the cogs whirling.

"won't promise anything."

"give it a chance. it will come otter-matically." saga was hit by the phone beeps.

casey's face hurt from smiling.

[veikkoalen]

the crossroads, the currents

fandoms: control, alan wake

characters: dylan faden, jesse faden and alan wake are mentioned

words: 352

summary: the whispers of doom lulled us to sleep. / black waters got you, / black fingers got me.

author's note: requested by @ghostlighthouse : ohh... if you want a remedyverse fic request i would love one about dylan meeting alan in one of his dreams?? // i fucked it up big time as the meaning is much more metaphoric than expected. i'll write for tim when i figure out how to make it more... corporeal 😵‍💫

on ao3 – check for extra notes in the end

"i want to tell you about my dream," – the candidate smiled, locking eyes with the director.

dylan found himself in the woods. surrounded by evergreen trees, nothing like he has ever seen. socks and pants clinging grossly to the skin from mud and rising water. the man got up from the dirt, to notice a red glow emanating from behind the thick trunks.

you creep carefully, minding your path through the flooded woods till you see it. the nature's beast, a monstrous tree, higher than the fingers themselves, beckoned to you, longed for your power, lusted for your trust. you indulged it, stepping through the passage. the forest's maw swallowed you whole.

i never saw a place like this before – the ocean shimmered, illuminated by thousands of lights. i step further, not minding the bone chilling rain, to the middle of the square. that's where i see the demiurge himself in all his brass glory. in the room, ripping papers and throwing the typewriter on the floor. in the depths of the lake, struggling against the currents.

i look at the man, straying further and further. slashing the waves with his arms, rushing faster and faster to the shore long forgotten. his knees find rocks, digging painfully into the skin. his hands find sand, getting under the nails. his lungs filled with air – not water – tainted with the stench of rot.

your gaze follows him, curious to see the opening lines, but the ocean is not kind enough to save your eyes from the salty waters. you groan, trying to clear your vision, but the world around melts and blends, denying you the revelation. you rub and scrub, and eventually, the comforting swirls and whispers come to soothe you.

dylan finds himself back in the cell, the director's face twisted by an incredulous look. he laughed. no more violators. no more pesky parasites. no more loneliness. swept away by the black and red currents. dylan's sister will never understand that.

"under the conceptual reality behind this reality," – the prime candidate closed his eyes, – "you must want these waves to drag you away."