#spectre caught on camera

[hauntingofthelamb]

blurry bites ୨୧

[calaisreno]

The Client

936 words / Prompt: Secret

Mary looks at the chair. John can’t be serious. “Why?”

The look he gives her is terrible. She knows his temper, but this is the first time she’s seen Captain Watson, who could shoot a man and have no trouble sleeping afterwards. 

“Because that’s where they sit,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re a client now, Mary. That’s all you are. That’s where you sit and talk, and we listen and decide if we want you or not.”

Sherlock is looking sort of grey. She wonders how he managed to sneak out of the hospital and set this up. Was it really necessary? Did he not think that John would believe him?

Her husband—well, the marriage probably isn’t legal, and now that he knows he’s married to a woman who’s been lying since the day they met, he’s obviously not going to stay. Right now, he can’t even look at her. 

Sherlock nods at her. She’s not sure why he’s trying to help her. Or why she didn’t kill him when she had a chance. She was rattled, or she would have done it properly, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. 

She thought she was finally safe. John is exactly the kind of man she would marry. If Sherlock hadn’t come back, they could have been happy. John is angry now, and it’s not all about her. He’s in love with Sherlock, and it’s something he can’t admit, even to himself. 

Maybe she should have simply disappeared. 

She still could.

“You know what?” She stands in front of John’s chair, glaring down at him. “Forget this bullshit. Open your eyes, John. This—” She pats her belly. “It isn’t real. There’s no baby.” 

He sits up, wide-eyed now.

She smirks. “Don’t pretend you didn’t suspect. You didn’t want to believe it, so you stopped paying attention.”

John’s speechless for a moment, then stammers. “But… why would you do that?”

“Without the baby, I would have lost you.” She turns to Sherlock. “Thanks, but I’ll handle Magnussen on my own.” 

Picking up her handbag, she walks towards the door. On the threshold she turns and gives her parting shot. “Pull your heads out of your arses, boys. See ya.”

John stares after her until they hear the door downstairs slam. He turns to Sherlock. “What the hell just happened?”

Sherlock tries to push himself up from his chair. “John… I think…”

Heavy feet are clattering up the stairs. John looks towards the door, where the paramedics have appeared. 

“Did somebody call an ambulance?”

Sherlock gasps. “Did you bring any morphine?”

A week later…

BBC News. According to Detective Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, the investigation into the death of media mogul Charles Augustus Magnussen has turned up no clues to the identity of his killer, or how they came to Appledore, his residence. Security footage is being examined, but the killer obviously knew their target and took care not to be caught on camera. All leads will be pursued, he says, but it appears to be a professional job.

Months later…

“You know, Sherlock, we didn’t need to have such a big wedding.”

“Don’t say that to Mummy. It’s always been her ambition to plan one. And I’m finding I don’t mind it so much.”

“I don’t even know half of these people. Other than Harry, I assume they’re all your relatives.”

“Most are. And acquaintances. My parents have a lot of friends.”

“Mycroft looks… well, less dyspeptic than usual.”

“Every feast needs a spectre, John.”

“Oh, look, he’s talking with Greg. And he’s actually smiling.”

“Who?”

“Oh, give it up, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes. They do seem rather… friendly. Interesting…”

“Who’s the woman with the hair?”

“All the women have hair, John. Not a single bald woman in the hall. Oh, I see. Looks like a wig. Probably some mystery relative. She’s talking with my cousin Pansy. Mummy will know.”

“Not important. Just… she seems familiar. Look, here’s Harry. Glad she made it this time.”

“Harry! Come here—I need to dance with my sister-in-law.”

“All right, Sherlock—does this mean Johnny gets to dance with Mycroft?”

“Absolutely not! I’m not dancing with Mycroft, even if he’s secretly running the country.”

“Well, your loss. Come on, Sherlock. John says you’re a good dancer. Let me see you get your boogie on.”

“My what?”

“Mrs Holmes! This is all lovely. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, John! And please, you must call me Viola. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s dancing with Harry. Say, who’s that woman over there with the dark hair and large glasses? She was just talking with Pansy.”

“Oh… I don’t know, John. I thought she was one of yours.”

“No, she’s not. Oh, look, she’s leaving.”

“Honestly, who leaves a wedding early? Sherlock, do come here!”

“Yes, Mummy?”

“It’s your wedding! Dance with your husband, dear! I’m going to look for mine.”

“Gladly. Come here, John.”

“Sherlock, that woman—”

“Yes, John. I know.”

“Does Mycroft know?”

“He told me she was dead. But he’s been wrong about dead people before.”

“Why do you think she came here?”

“You mean, why did she crash our wedding? I think she just wanted to make sure you’re fine. That we’re fine.”

“Is this what she meant by ‘get your heads out of your arses’?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s not vengeful.”

“No, I don’t believe she is. And I don’t bear her any ill-will.”

“No? Hm. I do, just a bit. But tonight, I only want to think about you.”

“Do you? Then I’ll just have to keep your attention, won’t I?”

“You always do, love.”

--

All my May Prompts 2024 can be read on AO3 here.

[adh-d2]

It's not so much that I needed Tech to be alive.

I wanted Tech to live, but I grieved his character when he died.

Then the hints started coming. The narrative focus shifted to this mysterious new character and signaled that he was important somehow. The theories started spreading. Week after week the 'camera' lingered on long, slow shots of a helmet that wouldn't come off.

So yeah, I stopped grieving. The longer it went on the more convinced I became that this must be Tech, because clearly it was someone important. Otherwise it would just be poor writing. This show isn't written poorly.

Case-in-point, what a beautiful finale. My heart was in my throat the entire time. I cried. I loved it. Taken on its own, I'd go so far as to say it was perfect.

-

Except for the fact that the CX plotline came to nothing. Seriously. We've followed it all season, and it came to nothing? I'm not even clear on what happened. There were more of them. They were kind of an anti-Bad-Batch? Except not really? There was a big one that pulled Wrecker's signature move. There was one with knives. They were regs? I think? One lost its helmet in a background shot so I guess we can conclude they were all regs. With different builds. And different accents. I suppose it doesn't matter, since they all died after a few minutes of screentime having meant nothing to the protagonists. They were a boss fight. The plot marches on.

-

It's entirely possible I got too caught up in the speculation. Maybe when I look back on all the posts I wrote and liked and reblogged it will be obvious that we were reaching. But right now from here in the thick of it, I swear there's so much to see! Do you mean to tell me they really didn't notice it in the writers room? That it was all a complete coincidence?

Would it have been better if someone on the creative team had just come out and confirmed that Tech wasn't coming back? I don't know. I don't think they were obligated to. But when a good 50% of the discourse about your show ending is speculation on this particular CX character, and the answer isn't even a different plot twist, but that the character means nothing at all...well, you can see how the team could have avoided some disappointment.

Maybe this is a bad take. I don't know how I feel. I wish I could have enjoyed the finale without having to grieve again for a character we'd already lost.

For now I'll end by saying that I loved this show and I can't wait to rewatch it someday on its own merit, without the spectre of 'is-it-could-it-be-no-please-let-it-be' clouding my judgement.

[sarahmadisonxoxo]

An idea that  @spectrum-spectre had inspired a scene in the dark pits of my mind.  Soulmate  AU’s in which people see color at the sight of their soulmate. The rules aren’t specific on whether that is only true if the meeting is in person, or if looking at photographs or videos brings on the same effect.  Soulmates AU Part 2 ---------------------------- Steve returns from the kitchen holding a large bowl of popcorn and two cans of coke from the fridge. Dustin’s been staying with him for a while, and as usual their afternoon consisted of watching television until their bodies screamed for sleep.  This particular afternoon Steve let Dustin choose what they’d watch. Dustin was usually left to make the choice simply because Steve wanted him to be comfortable, but it wasn’t something they mentioned. He’d so far been enjoying Dustin’s pick, the MTV music awards. There had been several artist that Steve adored. Tears for Fears. Madonna.  Dustin however was watching for Corroded Coffin, his newest favorite band that he listened to seemingly nonstop these days. The kid was obsessed, but again Steve didn’t complain because his home was Dustin’s home if he accepted it. It was nice to have someone around to liven up the overwhelming emptiness of the Harrington estate.  Steve set the popcorn down on the coffee table, dropping down next to Dustin on the couch, when his eyes came up to see the television screen color burst from the center of his gaze flooding out to adjust his vision until everything settled and grey was changed with vivid colors he’d only heard about in books.  His soulmate... the only issue was the angle of the camera was showing dozen’s of faces. He’d never be able to tell which one of them sparked the change. It was the whole point of it, making finding soulmates easier. Of course Steve would find a way to fuck his up.... he’d never find them. That show was several states away, the likelyhood of ending up in a room with one of them was nearly impossible. Even if he did, now he wouldn’t have a way to tell him who it was.  “ I think I am going to go to bed..” Steve hums.  “ Bed? Steve it’s eight thirty? “  “ Yeah... Work was just a lot today and I guess it’s just hitting me how tired I am” Steve explained.  Dustin didn’t seem to buy it, but he didn’t argue.  “ Okay.. Goodnight man. “  “ Night”  Steve cried his eyes out that night... over someone he didn’t even know.  ----------- “ thanks for driving me Steve.. I can’t believe they are coming Chicago on a day I can actually attend the convention. “ Dustin stood next to him in the line to get in to meet one of the guy’s from Corroded Coffin.. Steve planned on leaving the line before Dustin went behind the curtain, but he didn’t feel like being alone in here. Everyone seemed chill.. He was just feeling overwhelmed.  “ No problem Dustin.”  Slowly the line progressed foward, Steve eventually dropping out to go stand at the edge of the booth to wait. Letting himself get distracted by the excitement of those leaving the booth. Smiling at them as they ran out with their autographed pictures. He caught sight of Eddie.. or at least that’s who he assumed it was with the sign. The guy was pretty. His smile was bright and filled his face, dimples standing out to soften the rest of the edge his clothing might lead you to think he had.  When he heard Dustin’s voice Steve could only smile at the pure joy and excitement of the kid meeting one of his favorite people. He couldn’t remember hearing him so happy about anything other than when he’d finished building his Cerebro last summer.  The curtain opened, Steve’s eyes met Eddie’s for the first time that day as the man was telling Dustin goodbye.  They didn’t make it far from the booth before he heard someone calling Dustin’s name.. them both turning around to find Eddie running toward them.  “ Sorry I didn’t know your name...” Eddie apologized, taking Steve’s hands in his own. A small crowd forming around them with people muttering how Steve was living everyone's dream right now.  “ Steve? Is everything okay man? “ Steve questioned, Eddie’s face falling as he noticed the utter confusion written over Steve’s features.  “ you didn’t see it” Eddie questioned. “ See what?  “ The color? You didn’t. Oh shit. ��  “ The color?..” Steve started, his eyes looking off in thought “ Oh... it was you. On the tv.. I must have seen you. “  “ TV? “  “ The MTV Awards...”  “ Steve that was nearly a year ago... you’ve had color for? “  “ Nearly a year yeah...”  “ Oh shit..” Eddie thought allowed, processing that the confusion was because Steve had been seeing color the whole time. “ Can I take you out sometime? You know if you want. I don’t know if you do this whole thing, but I think it would be pretty cool”  “ Eddie”  “ Yeah”  “ I’d love to go out with you sometime”  “ Great” Eddie cheered, a small smile pulling at his lips, offering his sharpie over to Steve. “ just write your number on my arm”  Eddie tugged his sleeve up to give Steve space in a place that could be hidden on his arm. Both of them smiling like fools the entire time.  “ You should get back to your fans.. “  “ Yeah.. I will call you tonight. “  “ I can’t wait” 

[cemetery-irises]

HE'S SO OLD

Also for headcanons: he's a shapeshifter! After an accident with his own soul-meddling camera, so many reflections of the souls that he'd photographed collided into his that it killed him nearly instantly, but gave his ghost the side effect of being able to replicate anyone caught in his images.

I adore his beta design so he's got that now, and can generally be pretty terrifying if he's intentionally not keeping up a form. However, before the manor, this is just what he always looked like.

He likes to haunt people and see what they're doing, which is what led him to occasionally visit white sand street asylum as a spectre, and also what led him to Oletus Manor.

He did not expect for his form to be clear and perfect and unmarred again. It's based on a photo of him with Claude, where they were both playing dress-up in fancy clothing and his father's wig. Joseph quite likes the white hair this form gives him, and the gleam of his eyes turning into a solid blue is a pretty touch, at least to him. He doesn't intend on changing this form anytime soon.

waah this old ass man i hate him

[ghostlytales]

Drowned ghost

The ghost of a drowned man has been caught on camera wandering through a tunnel while traffic drives through him. At least that’s according to long distance lorry driver George Furst, whose colleague Stephen Smyth took the snap as they drove into the tunnel in Cork, Ireland. When the pair checked the photo, the spotted what they believe could be a Downton Abbey period spectre, who met his end in the area.

[merge-conflict]

2000 Word Blowjob 😳 and if that one was already asked, Toolin'

I did sort of, but I am happy to talk about more!

This was the '2000 word character focused blowjob challenge' that mostly lives in my head and I haven't been able to capture correctly with words yet. The idea of a smut fic also showing more about a character isn't exactly groundbreaking– sex is by nature intimate and you can explore a lot about a character by what they decide to do and how much of themselves they choose to reveal or make vulnerable, BUT I want to make it exactly 2000 words, and once I've got a draft down I want to make sure I'm hammering certain character quirks and revelations down. Until I've done that I've sort of just got a grab bag of ideas:

The plan is a FFOR-universe set Valentine/Kerry scene where they've finally gotten past some of their rocky start (the aforementioned knife to the throat, among other things). Kerry's been playing to the cameras, or will be playing to the cameras, and he's in a Bad Mood because Johnny has been jealous about the attention he's getting and handling it in the usual way (badly) and Rogue is just generally unimpressed with his who celebrity rockerboy thing so he's feeling a little emasculated– and Valentine is in That Mood where she wants to help so badly she's given herself jobs to do like a neurotic dog.

There's that spectre in the air of neither of them knowing how much of their attraction is or isn't because of how caught up they are with Johnny, but quickly establish their own dynamic (Kerry's in charge) and are enjoying themselves without interference. They're relaxed, bantering, fooling around in the huge walk-in closet with all the mirrors... Johnny interrupts, of course, (haven't decided when) but then when they're both sort of exasperated it's more like a bonding moment than destabilization. They both recontextualize something things about each other. Idk. Valentine and Johnny are always sort of offhandedly implying they're extensions of each other's identity but Kerry looks at Valentine and sees himself... Idk. Messy as fuck!

If that sounds like a lot for 2000 words well. I might break a few promises there, but eventually I'm going to set this down to paper. Eventually!

[clericofshadows]

Regis: LOTSB & Nyx: kaidan and hackett in an elevator 👀👀

LOTSB... my beloathed DLC that I'm rewriting drastically in more ways than one. I'm probably going to cut out like all the drawn out Vasir stuff and have Wren sniff her out early. or something. anything to get it over with faster lmao.

I'll put both your snippets under the cut :)

Regis made his way through T'Soni's apartment, trying to figure out what had happened beyond what the Spectre had claimed: an assassination attempt. He was only partially sorry that it had failed, but the whole situation intrigued him too damn much to let Wren handle it on her own, coming on her advisement after her surveillance picked up on it. She was currently talking to the Spectre, finding out as much information as she can about the case, both for his sake's and the Alliance's investigation into T'Soni. The apartment was clean, despite the attempt, having good enough protections to prevent the worst of the attack from doing major damage. Signs of her prothean archeologist past littered the apartment, and Regis wished she stuck to that instead of the shit she got herself into, if only because he was tired of her meddling into his life and death. A glass case caught his attention, housing something beat up, charred and damaged, out of place in the admittedly elegant home. He approached it, and immediately felt sick, his gaze first landing on a piece of scorched, frayed cloth, a scrap of black and red fabric that mirrored the one around his neck. The sound of glass shattering filled the air, the once pristine display case reduced to nothing more than a pile of shards. He reached out for the battered torso of his armor, taking it apart, piece by piece, ignoring Samara's and Zaeed's noises of concern. Where is it, where are his dog tags, where is his father's goddamn ring?

you're in luck because I posted an earlier snippet of Kaidan and Hackett in an elevator so you get another one too :)

“You got that right.”  Hackett glanced around.  “Are there–?” He made a motion with his hand, gesturing around. Kaidan did a quick scan with his omnitool and nodded.  “Won’t take me but a second to throw up a privacy field.” “They know there’s a Spectre and an Alliance stuck in here, I doubt it’ll raise too much suspicion.” “I don’t know,” Kaidan couldn’t help but grin.  “The wrong officer sees it and starts spinning all kinds of tales.” “One superior officer is not enough for you?” He teased back, and Kaidan laughed as he activated the privacy field, scrambling the camera feed and muting the audio.  He was a bit surprised Hackett played along.  “Maybe not. The perks are just so good,” Kaidan said, focusing his gaze on Hackett, a smirk tugging at his lips. “The benefits alone make it worth it.” And he couldn't deny that Hackett was quite the handsome man.  The same things that drew him to Nyx drew him to Hackett.  Scars, voices, the way they held themselves… and he knew damn well his tastes often went to older men in his fantasies. Hackett crossed his arms against his chest, raising an eyebrow.  “Didn’t expect this from you.” “I don’t see you complaining,” Kaidan said, keeping his tone neutral.  “Allow me to be serious for a moment?” “Thought you already were,” he challenged. Kaidan nodded, leaning back against the elevator wall.  “Part of me was.  Nyx never stopped having feelings for you, you know.”

[saikourobyn]

Japan 2020 - Day 1

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Arriving in Tokyo and running away to Hakone, hot springs really help with jet lag.

If you haven't seen the previous post check out the Prelude.

Monday 24th February 2020

Tokyo

Our flight arrived at 6:50 AM, our first sign of coronavirus prevention was a man standing behind an infrared camera to check people's temperature as they went through to get their passports checked.

Oli’s friend Hiroshi met with us at the airport to give us a lift to his place where we would be staying that week, again to save a bit of cash, but it was a brief stop after a catch up we would be off travelling immediately.

We had originally planned to go to Hakone with Hiroshi but he had to get ready for his upcoming wedding so instead he took us to lunch at Tokyo Station our first proper meal in Japan was Ramen! Which it turns out is good for any meal, breakfast/lunch/dinner/after drinks before stumbling home.

Hiroshi pointed us in the right direction and we caught a train to Hakone where we would spend our first night.

Hakone

A running theme in this trip is not doing much in the way of research before going to places, partly due to not wanting to plan too much in advance and experience things as they come and also being free to do things that looked interesting when we found them.

It was this that brought our first surprise of Hakone, there’s a famous anime set here, Evangelion. The only trouble was neither I nor Oli have seen it so the map of the local area with screenshots from the show were lost on us, but all that means is we get to see the real life version before watching the show and say “I recognise that, I’ve been there.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough we committed our next sin of not having change for the coin lockers to store our luggage, fresh off the plane with our currency we had nothing but notes and no easy way to change them we found a nearby vending machine which refused to take our money, we struggled for a minute before a helpful Japanese lady came and pointed out that the machine wasn’t able to give change, presumably because everyone else had been doing the same thing.

We got our drinks, stashed our luggage and proceeded to explore the local town as we couldn’t check in to our ryokan (traditional Japanese hotel) yet. It appears to be a popular destination for tourists, I was worried that as it wasn’t a major city the folks there wouldn’t understand our lacklustre Japanese and the inevitable reverting to English and pointing at things but we had no issues.

We spent about 40 minutes walking around Hakone then when we were ready to check in we retrieved our luggage and trundled up the hill. We discovered a spoopy tunnel, which may have been our first encounter with the spectre thief, is it a ghost who steals things or someone who steals ghosts or it could be someone who steals ghosts who steal things like some sort of ghost police.

The area is known for its onsen (natural hot springs) and the ryokan we are staying in has its own onsen but not only that some of the rooms have private onsen… for couples, we have booked just such a room. This allows us to practise before embarrassing ourselves in front of any Japanese folk that may be using the public onsen.

The ryokan has tatami (Mats made of straw although modern mats have woodchip or polystyrene at their core) on the floor and futons to sleep on, so your living room doubles as a bedroom, there’s no kotatsu sadly but it has air conditioning which was greatly appreciated as it was still quite chilly outside, the weather in the UK had been getting milder but in Japan were thrown back in to winter somewhat.

After trying out our private onsen we decided to also try out the futons and had a nap, this seemed to work out well as we woke up in time for a late dinner and were still tired enough to get to sleep later.

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[hauntingofthelamb]

໒꒰ྀི˶ . ˕ . ˶ྀི꒱১

[theharpermovieblog]

#HARPERSMOVIECOLLECTION

2023

I re-watched Lost Highway (1997)

This is the hardest movie I've had to talk about since there is just so much to get into and it's impossible to do that here. So I'm sorry if this is jumbled and poorly written. In 10 years I'll rewrite this and disagree with everything I've said here. Lol

A musician murders his wife and after being sentenced to death transforms into a young man who gets caught between a woman and a Mob Boss.

Lost Highway is about a man's feelings of sexual inadequacy and the lies he tells himself. At least for the most part.

Bill Pullman's character of Fred, at one point says he doesn't like video cameras because "I like to remember things my own way....not necessarily the way they happened." For Fred, this escapism is a need. It is a coping mechanism that will lead him to do horrible things and change the very fabric of who he is. Fred's need to escape and "remember things his own way" leads him to unknowingly kill his wife and even physically transform himself into someone else.

Robert Blake's pale faced spectre is what Fred is trying to escape. The spectre is Fred's sense of reality. Through videotapes the spectre shows Fred how "Things really happened". The Spectre shows Fred that he is a murderer who has killed his own wife. He knows Fred even after Fred transforms and becomes another person because, try as Fred might, reality is inescapable.

The person Fred Becomes is Balthazar Getty's character Pete. He's young and self confident. He's a new start for Fred, but Patricia Arquette as both characters Renee and Alice is another part of life that Fred cannot escape. At first Fred kills Renee and after he's charged for her murder he becomes Pete, but Pete can't help but fall for Renee's doppelganger, Alice, leading him back to being Fred, who then goes on to make a full circle bringing us back to the beginning of the film.

It's all very complicated and confusing on the surface. Dig a little deeper and it's still complicated and confusing, but it begins to take shape. This is what David Lynch is best at. He makes films that seem like nonsense to many, but in reality are full of meaning and feel no obligation to work within the parameters of logic outside the film's universe.

Im sure I'm right about a decent amount of this and wrong about a decent amount too. Lost Highway is, like many of Lynch's films, full of dream logic and is anything but spoon fed to the audience. It changes in narrative and yet remains the same throughout. It's a puzzle, but one I enjoy trying to solve piece by piece.

It's been said that Lost Highway takes place in the same universe as Lynch's Twin Peaks series, which is totally possible if not 100% true. The style, music, character interactions.....it's all very "Twin Peaks" in tone. And, like Twin Peaks, there is so much to challenge yourself with.

What I really love about this movie, technically, is the use of Darkness and the use of hollow, drafty sound. Two things Lynch uses often and well, but here they seem incredibly noticeable. It adds to the dreaminess and to the feeling of everything happening in the void of this world. It also helps the sound and music have a bigger impact.

Lost Highway is a noir horror through the mind of David Lynch and, despite it's difficulty, it's absolutely mesmerizing in many moments.

There are gorgeous shots in this film, a solid cast, puzzles to be solved, and a lot more.

Is it the best Lynch film out there? No. But it's one that every person wanting to understand David Lynch as a filmmaker should watch. If you don't like it, you won't like his other work.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 22 - 31 (Your own death)

Summary: Alistair and Bo Peep Shepard go to visit someone in the hospital and hear his last requests. It’s a bit of an awkward visit... but can you blame them? They’re not exactly used to watching someone die slowly. Blame it on the military life?

---

“You know, you don’t have to do this with me.”

“The fuck I don’t.”

Like always, Bo cut through the bullshit. It was something he could appreciate about her. Alistair was glad for that as they got out of the taxi that had led them to a hospital in the Wards. He could already smell the antiseptic, even though they hadn’t made it to the building. Something about it was oddly comforting – maybe because he had died once?

Who knows, he was fucked up.

Pulling the hood of his jacket up higher reminded him he was also fucked up physically. Alistair winced as the fabric brushed against the worst of the bruising on his neck, dark and imposing. Since he wasn’t the type for collared shirts – and they probably would have hurt – the best he could do was cover it with his jacket. If anyone saw, they’d ask questions due to the shape of a man’s hands around his neck.

They wouldn’t want the answers. Hell, he didn’t want the answers and he had been the one getting choked out against a wall.

“Did they say anything else?” Bo’s sharp eyes glanced to the hospital as they approached. “This could be a Cerberus trap.”

Alistair shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, I checked the encryption. Cerberus didn’t send this one, and it fits for the timing.”

The doors hissed open as he approached the desk. The receptionist started to smile in that practiced way and prepare her canned speech, but her eyes widened as she realized just who was standing in front of her. At least she didn’t drop anything – that had happened before, and it was always embarrassing.

“C-Commander Shepard!”

That was his rank, don’t wear it out.

Alistair smiled as politely as he could as he nodded his head. “Morning. Could you tell me where to go to visit John Vantas? They said he was in the ICU when they called me earlier.”

The name felt waxy on his tongue – most lies did. At least most of it was true – someone had indeed called him to let him know there was a patient in this hospital he needed to see. He just left off that it had been a fellow Spectre and that his target was under heavy lockdown.

It was no wonder why they hadn’t taken him to Huerta… the security there would have lost their minds.

The woman at the desk, stars still in her eyes, typed the details into the system. He could practically see the screen in front of her warning her that this was under heavy security and required top clearance. Before she could open her mouth to ask for it, he slipped his ID from his pocket and slid it over.

“It’s probably asking for this, right?” He turned to Bo. “Bo, you too.”

His sister brushed past him and added her ID to the pile. Both cards had their name, pictures, and most importantly the Spectre logo that gave them top clearance on the Citadel. It would be more than enough to get into the hospital, even if they weren’t invited.

The receptionist gave a shaky nod as she typed the info in. Then the computer dinged, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I see you’re both on the approved list.”

She grabbed two paper stickers from under her desk and slid them over. “Head over to the elevator and go down to the bottom floor. The guard will tell you what to do there.”

He accepted the stickers for them both and smiled in return. “Thanks for the help.”

Then they left. Briefly, as he attached the sticker to his jacket, he caught sight of the area behind her desk. There was an older calendar there, one he knew very well. Blood collected in his cheeks, and Bo snickered at the sight of a familiar image of him, naked from the waist up, glancing over his shoulder at the camera.

Of course, she had the Red Shepard calendar…

“Guess she didn’t expect to see you with your clothes on, huh?” Bo elbowed him in the side – oww. “You probably made her day.”

He rolled his eyes and rubbed his side. “That’s me, professional day maker.”

“Hey, it’s part of the war effort – morale, or some shit like that.”

Sure, morale. It was still embarrassing to see himself half naked on somebody’s wall. How Bo had talked him into that… right, for the kids. That was what he kept muttering to himself under his breath whenever he saw the damn thing.

Regardless, it kept him busy during the short ride down. Once the elevator dinged, out they went. Here it was quiet, and there was only a guard stationed at the door with a very nasty looking gun. They sat up as Alistair approached, no doubt ready to put finger to the trigger if he so much as acted up.

“You here for the patient?”

To the point – he could respect that. Alistair nodded and showed his ID once more. The guard took longer to scrutinize it, turning it over a few times. Last he checked, there was nothing important on the other side, but he just watched. After all, the guy had a big gun, and he didn’t want to test his civilian kinetic barriers at short range.

They finished, but then glanced over at Bo. “Who the hell are you?”

Bo’s muscles tensed as she stepped forward. “I’m a fucking candy striper, the fuck do you think?”

Alistair felt the sweat bead on the back of his neck as he glanced from his sister to the guard. A hot temper in a closed space wasn’t a pleasant thing, especially because of the aforementioned gun. So, he decided to step between them and hope he could end this amicably.

“She’s with me. Her ID has the same clearance.”

The guard gave him a dirty look as he handed it back. “You Spectres are a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

He sat down, hitting a button so the door opened. “Go on, don’t cause any problems. You better not kill him either, he’s not supposed to die by bullets.”

Bo walked first, shooting him a blank look as she passed. “Some of us don’t need bullets to kill.”

He resisted the urge to groan as he stepped forward. The door closed shut behind him, closing them off into a hallway that led to another door. Here he could hear the faint sounds of medical devices beeping. The heart rate told him whoever was attached wasn’t doing well – it was way too slow.

Somebody was on their way out.

A salarian met them at the door. Alistair knew him – Jondum Bau. They had worked together finding a hanar terrorist a few weeks prior. He was a bit by the book, but an alright sort. Then again, if the so-called king of the boy scouts was calling you by the book, it was probably a bit much.

He felt bad not telling him Kasumi was alive, but… it was a long story.

“Shepard, good to see you.” He nodded at Bo. “They found him this morning. He won’t make it.”

“He fucking fell out of the Normandy; I’m amazed he’s breathing now.” Bo’s deadpan cut the tension. Alistair would have laughed if not for the atmosphere. “How bad is he, Bau?”

The salarian motioned for them to enter. “Bad. Most of his bones are broken, there’s internal bleeding. Even if he was unfortunate enough to survive, he’d be paralyzed.”

He glanced over at Alistair. “Don’t try to kill him when you get in there.”

Why did everyone think he was going to kill the man? Jesus, he was a paragon of virtue most days…

Still, he nodded. “Understood. Thank you for taking him to the hospital. I don’t think we’ll be long.”

Jondum nodded back and stood away from the door, granting Alistair and Bo entry. He entered first, bracing himself for what he was going to see on the other side. It was a hospital room, with a monitor beeping in the background and a screen giving vital readouts. A few more machines, monitoring other vitals, was attached to the person in the bed, who stared up at the two that entered.

“Wasn’t…” he coughed. “Expecting to see you again.”

Alistair’s tongue loosened before his brain did. “Well, makes sense… you did let go and try to fall to your death.”

His clone was in rough shape, to say the least. If he had read the records right, several bones would be downright shattered. The worst was his spine – no way would he be able to walk without serious implants. Of course, that would come only if he survived the massive internal bleeding and organ laceration to came with the fight, not to mention the fact he had been shot quite a few times.

Honestly, he’d say he was surprised the bastard was alive… but they were the same bastard, so maybe he should walk that back.

Bo shot his clone a blank look as she took the only chair in the room, turning it backwards as she sat in it. “So, you dying yet or what? Should I get pizza or something for the wait?”

“Yes, because I called you here for the spectacle.” Despite the fact they had the same voice, his clone had much more biting sarcasm to his tone. He paused to cough – blood spattered his bandages. “Last I checked, I only invited him.”

His sister shrugged. “Package deal. You get him, you get me. Maybe that’s why you fucked up, no giant lesbian in your life.”

Seriously… how the hell did Cerberus think that his clone was going to fool Bo, not to mention the rest of the Normandy? They all knew him well, and this guy was missing the mark in several key areas. No way he would’ve pulled it off past the surface level.

Leave it to a group of terrorists to fuck that up.

“Giant lesbians aside,” Alistair did his best to steer the conversation back to why he was there. “Why did you invite me?”

The clone shrugged weakly – probably hurt like a bitch. “Nobody wants to die alone. Guess I wanted somebody to know I was here is all. Brooks is in interrogation; the cell is scrubbed… you’re the only one I’ve got.”

It was probably meant to guilt him, and it worked. Alistair felt a twinge of sympathy for the man in the bed, and not because they shared a face. His clone had never asked to be born, though he had certainly chosen to try and take over his life. He’d get some consolation for the first bit, but not the second.

“So, you wanted me to watch you die then.” Alistair frowned. “I know they think it’s going to be soon…”

The clone chuckled weakly, though it produced more bloody coughing. “I figured you’d enjoy watching me cough myself to death or see my organs explode.”

He shot the man in the bed a dirty look. “I don’t like you, but I certainly don’t want to watch a man die, especially when we share a face. I already have enough fucked up trauma from dying the first time.”

Something about being around his clone loosened his tongue in the worst way. Alistair felt his face color as he glanced to the side, waiting for the heat to pass. No doubt that had been what the man had been trying to get.

“Yeah… the record said you were pretty fucked up about that. I was supposed to lean on that once you were dead. Probably would’ve worked out if I kept my mouth shut about leaving you in the archive.”

…

And they thought this guy could be him? The thought loosened a chuckle from his throat, one he couldn’t quite contain. Even Bo looked a little surprised at his reaction, though the clone remained less than impressed.

“Something you want to share with the class, Alistair?”

Alistair shook his head in response. “Just surprised they honestly thought anyone was going to believe you. You’re missing crucial elements to pulling me off right, they would’ve spotted you a mile away.”

His clone scoffed -or tried to, the record said he had a collapsed lung. “And what’s that? Compassion, empathy?”

“Try a massive case of Catholic guilt, it does wonders for stopping the urge to lock somebody in an archive to die.”

The sarcasm that leaked through his teeth could have destroyed Tuchanka two times over. Off to the side, Bo snorted. Even the clone looked bemused by this, though it was hard to tell with all the bandages.

“His preservation instinct’s too good to pull off being you, though.” Bo’s voice added to the beeps. “You would’ve taken the chance to martyr yourself at the first instance you got.”

Alistair felt his face heat again as he turned to his sister. “Hey, I’m not the one who decided to fall to my death off the Normandy, now was I?”

“No, you just died trying to save Joker from the Normandy two years ago.” She snickered. “And let’s be honest, you would’ve tried it if you were in his position.”

“No, I wouldn’t have!” he groaned. “Ugh, whatever. Point remains, I’m not the one dumb enough to just fall of a midair frigate in the middle of the Citadel! Jesus, we’re lucky that the news didn’t get there first, or people would think I was dead again.”

Speaking of dead again – in that moment, Alistair had forgotten that there was a third person in the room. It was only when the clone left out a shaky cough that it came back to him. At least he managed not to blush as he turned back to face his mirror image, minus all the bandages and massive body trauma.

That definitely helped.

“The reports didn’t mention you were an asshole, so I think I could pull that off at least.” He coughed again – more blood this time. Maybe it was more than a collapsed lung. “How the hell did you manage to keep that a secret?”

The Spectre chuckled at that as he flashed his best fake grin. “You can do a lot by being polite.”

“Plus I’m there to take the heat off. Nobody notices him being a snarky little asshole when I’m being a giant one.” Bo smirked. “Again, why you failed. Too bad Cerberus didn’t get any of my DNA, maybe you could’ve won.”

Another Bo? Perish the thought, they’d wind up wrestling to death. At least the krogan on Omega would find it entertaining. Maybe they could raise money for the hospital fund by selling tickets and streaming it.

Aria would be down for that…

“My mistake.” He coughed again, weaker. His clone laid back on the bed, looking much more tired. “Hey, does this mean I’m dying finally?”

Alistair glanced over at the machines. Indeed, they were getting weaker. His heart wasn’t pumping as hard, and his oxygen rates were starting to decline. If he had to guess, his clone was heading towards actively dying.

It was weird, seeing that happen. Usually the death he witnessed was sudden – a bullet to a vital place sending blood spraying onto his armor, a bomb scattering debris a half mile wide, biotics ripping somebody apart. There was something about watching a man choke on his lungs that felt wrong to him.

And there was that sympathy.

He took a deep breath before he spoke. “Yeah… I think so.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to wait long.” Blood trickled down his pale lips, and he made no move to wipe it away. His breathing was starting to get weaker, as if getting his lungs to fill was a harder effort.

Alistair frowned. “Do… is there anything you want done with your body after you’re gone?”

His clone didn’t answer for quite a while, and for a moment he was convinced he had missed the man’s last heartbeat. However, the machine was still beating, though it was getting slower. He was getting to the point of no return.

“Why the fuck do you care?”

The Spectre shrugged his shoulders in response. “Because even if you’re the fucker who tried to kill me and steal my life, you’re still a person. I figure you should get a say in what you want done when you’re dead.”

Logically, he knew that he should ignore whatever the man said and just push for cremation. After all, they shared DNA. If Liara and Cerberus had managed to pull his body from the vacuum of space, it would be no problem digging it out of the ground when nobody was around t watch. Hell, he wasn’t even sure ashes were enough – sink him in acid and store it in concrete for a couple centuries. Maybe that would stop them.

But… that wasn’t his decision. It was his clone’s.

“It’s not like I can get a headstone, don’t exactly have my own name.” He chuckled weakly. “Unless they gave me a name for the hospital stay.”

Bo’s voice rang out now. “They called you John Vantas. No idea why.”

Yeah… it wasn’t exactly John Doe. Maybe it was an alien thing? He would have to look that up later.

“John Vantas…” the clone was quiet. “Might as well… guess I’m John then. Not a great name, but I doubt I could come up with anything better.”

John coughed again. “Just cremate me, I guess. Makes it easier for the both of us. I don’t have anyone who’s going to come visit my grave, and you don’t have to explain why someone with your DNA is rotting in a grave.”

Another pause. “I guess if it’s possible… dump my ashes somewhere where there’s water. Before we started this, I saw a bit of forest. Might be nice to rest there. Won’t hold you to it, I did try to kill you.”

He did. But… it wasn’t exactly hard to drop a bag of someone in the forest. Add in the fact they shared DNA, it was the least he could do.

Alistair nodded. “I can drop you in a forest, John.”

“You really are a fucking boy scout.” Yet he swore there was a quirk of a smile on the man’s face as his eyes closed. “Ugh, just get out of here. I don’t want to see your face when I die and the big one doesn’t need to watch you die a second time.”

Before the Spectre could argue, he added, “No, I don’t need anyone with me. I’ve had enough of people staring at me in hospital rooms to last both our lifetimes.”

His breathing was slowing now. There was no room to argue, and frankly Alistair didn’t want to make him do it. So, he nodded as he rose to his feet, briefly tapping the top of the man’s bandaged hand with his own.

“May the road rise to meet you, John.”

Bo followed him as they left the room. As soon as they did, alarms started blaring and a medical team rushed towards the door, a crash cart with them. The Spectres stepped to the side to allow them passage, then kept walking. In the background, they could hear medical gear roaring to life as they tried to save his life.

Alistair just kept walking to the elevator. Soon, they were heading back up to the first floor, where they would meet back up with the receptionist. While he waited for that, he leaned against the wall and sighed.

Bo’s voice carried over the gentle dinging. “So… guess you don’t have to worry about the gender thing, huh? John’s a pretty dude name.”

“Says the woman named Bo.”

His sister snickered as she shoved him hard. “You know what it stands for, asshole. So much for making you feel better, you bastard.”

What could he say – something about the situation made him need some dumb jokes. After all, he had just watched a man code. No doubt they were still working on John, trying their best to get his battered body to survive just a bit longer.

…

Alistair was surprised at his own thoughts as he turned to face his sister. “You know… he’s probably going to survive this.”

Bo actually laughed at that. “No fucking shit, he’s you. If he’s half the asshole you are, he’ll be rolling around by the end of the month.”

She pushed him forward when the elevator door opened, launching him into the lobby. “And what was with that ‘road rise to meet you’ bullshit? You getting maudlin on me, marine?”

All he could do was try to catch his balance, which he did after a few steps. Then he shrugged, a somewhat sheepish grin crossing his features. “My dad always said it when somebody died. I guess it’s the only positive thing he gave me besides the accent.”

That didn’t exactly outweigh the Catholic guilt… but that was the mixed bag he had inherited.

Still, he felt a little lighter as they headed towards the hospital exit. No doubt if John did die, he’d get the ashes within the week. If not… well, all he could do was keep his eyes peeled for someone sharing his face.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for as they walked out into the artificial sunshine of the Wards. Lucky for him, he didn’t have to think about that for a while. Right then, he had other things to worry about. All he could do was wish John the best of luck.

Well, that and dodge Bo. She was punchy today.

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]

[nyrandrea]

Your Enemy

I’m on a Mystery Skulls kick right now so here have a one-shot fic with plenty of Arthur and Lewis angst with a dash of fluff!

Summary: In a brief respite amongst the chaos, Arthur tries to reconcile with a long lost friend.

Takes place during the events of The Future.

Enjoy!

“Lewis...?”

 The name felt foreign on Arthur's tongue, almost taboo in a sense. Probably because he had found out the truth only moments ago while hanging over a pit of glowing magenta stalactites, only to be dropped down by his best friend's skeletal hand.

In a strange way he felt at peace as his body silently dropped through the wisps of pink smoke. He had finally found Lewis after months of painstaking searching, but there was a sharp jab that threatened to break through his ribs; that pang of betrayal, and a vague sense of de-ja-vu.

There was nothing else he could do now but stare up, maybe even reach out in some sort of last-minute grand gesture to show that he still cared. Not that it mattered; it would all be over soon.

But then... there's something there. It's hard to tell with Lewis, always has been, but there's a flicker of emotion. A little doubt at first, then realization kicks in, his eye sockets crease down into an expression that Arthur can't really read from this far down.

Sorrow? Regret? Guilt?

A small glimmer of hope buds in his chest as the ghoul seems to reach out.

The spikes beneath start to crumble into dust, and the world around them warps.

The crackling of a gunshot rings out.

And suddenly Arthur was back in the truck, smothered by a mountain of cardboard boxes.

Senses sharpened by adrenaline, Arthur held his breath, straining to hear with whatever concentration he had left. There was a clink as something hit the metal floor next to him, but he didn’t want to open his eyes in the fear that maybe that ghost – Lewis – might be hovering over him with second thoughts.

A few more shots blasted through the truck, and there was a grunt from Lewis as a bullet hit him square in the chest. It was only a few moments later when muffled shouting came from outside.

…Uncle Lance?

Shit.

With one hand to steady his racing head, Arthur finally came to, his eyes darting around the truck for Lewis and his uncle – neither were there, and it was starting to grow eerily quiet.

His gaze fell onto a dark grey heart-shaped locket that seemed to beat with a life of its own, albeit weakly. On closer inspection, there were cracks laced around it; some were light, while others seemed to cut deep.

Wait, wasn’t this the same heart that Lewis had on him? Maybe the shock had messed with his head, but he was pretty sure it been a bright yellow before. Now it just looked…sad.

Part of him knew it wasn’t his place to go prying, but something compelled Arthur to open the locket up, despite the fact that it would probably piss Lewis off even more than he already was. And there was still his uncle to think of.

Still, his entrancement got the better of him.

Inside was Lewis, of course, but there was Vivi too…smiling up at him as he cradled her in his arms.

There was that pang again, and Arthur couldn’t help but frown as he stared down at the picture. They were a great couple, nobody could deny that, but weren’t they meant to be a team? A family? Did Mystery not matter to Lewis anymore? Did…did he not matter?

But as he squinted, he swore he could see the picture… changing – different colours and figures warping into the frame with every pulse. Lewis and Vivi were still there, but now Mystery was too with a fang-filled grin – to which Arthur couldn’t help but shudder at – and…he was there too. His eyes widened as he watched himself slowly manifest in the corner, smiling up at the camera with a cheesy smile and a peace sign.

Stunned, Arthur could only keep staring as the heart started thumping erratically before suddenly being snatched from his grasp. Fright gripped him like nothing else on this earth as Lewis glowered down at him. It wasn’t like before, when he was in full-on anger and murderous rage mode. No, this was more like an annoyed scowl as if he had just caught Arthur looking into his secret diary.

Which…wasn’t far from the truth, honestly.

As the spectre turned his back to Arthur, shock seemed to overtake him as he fell to his knees; his broad shoulders trembling as he seemed to just stare at the picture in silent disbelief, as if he just couldn’t accept what was right in front of him.

Was…was he…crying?

“Lewis…?”

When Arthur received no answer, he mustered up enough courage to slowly shuffle his way up from behind, but the closer he got, the bigger and more menacing Lewis somehow became. Not to mention the sweltering warmth that seemed to emanate from him like a blazing aura, threatening to melt his skin if he got too close.

For that reason alone, Arthur stopped there, just about an arm’s length away.

From here, he could observe his best friend – or sworn enemy, seeing as he had been trying to kill Arthur – and make out just what the hell had happened to him. From the jutting ribcage and skull-head to the fact that he floated, it was safe to say that Lewis was, in-fact, dead.

Arthur swallowed a hard lump down his throat.

They had been looking for him for months now – well, Arthur had, as Vivi had no recollection of her boyfriend whatsoever – and they had unknowingly found him at some dusty old mansion. What had he been doing there? Why was he so angry looking all the time? How did he die?

The questions swirling through his head were interrupted though when he heard a sob rattle out from the ghost; it was quiet, almost a whisper, but as deep as a rumble of thunder rolling out in the distance.

It was a sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with apprehension, and he could feel his body start to kick into fight or flight mode.

Mostly flight.

But this was Lewis: the guy with the level-head, the caring big brother, the kindest friend that anyone could ask for. And now he was upset and… Arthur couldn’t just let that slide, despite everything.

With a deep breath to console himself – as he had done before with Mystery – he reached out a trembling hand, only hesitating when the heat started to become unbearable, like he was testing fate with an open fire.

But he had come so far, there was no point in pulling back now, not when he had a chance to finally reconcile with his friend.

Maybe even ally.

At the very least an acquaintance.

However, when he finally laid his bare hand on Lewis’s back, he was surprised to feel that it wasn’t sizzling like bacon in a frying pan, but instead the heat was…almost pleasant to the touch. Still intense, but not excruciating.

Still, there was a moment then. A moment in which Arthur could feel Lewis’s body jolt in surprise at the sudden touch before going rigid in realization. He could only hope that this was the good kind of surprise, the kind that Lewis would open up his arms and they would embrace in tears as they had done many times in the past after a particularly cheesy chick flick (in which Vivi would just roll her eyes and comment that she was supposed to be the woman in this relationship.)

Hopefully not the kind of surprise that would get his ass burned to a crisp.

The reaction he got wasn’t one way or the other though, as Lewis only turned around to gaze down at him with black tear-tracks running down his skull. It wasn’t a particularly fond look, nor was it a hateful glare. He was just…indifferent, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the shivering excuse of a mess that was trying to pat his back in a weak attempt at comforting.

“H…Hey it’s okay, L-L-L…”

Lewis’s violet pupils constricted into slits as his eye sockets frowned in irritation, which was enough to send Arthur scrambling back as the ghost rose from the ground and towered above him.

“Don’t patronise me.”

“Holy shit,” Arthur muttered in awe – or horror, he couldn’t even tell what he was really feeling right now. “You can talk?!”

A dry look was his response.

“Sorry Lew,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “It’s just really weird seeing you like- “

A snort of derision suddenly cut him off.

Arthur couldn’t help but be a little taken aback. Lewis had always been so patient – having been brought up with three energetic little sisters – and always had his back when it came to exploring haunted places.

Well, Arthur really had Lewis’s back, since he was hiding behind him all the time.

Now here he was, sneering down at him with his arms crossed like some tough bully of the playground that had just asserted his dominance by stealing Arthur’s lunch money.

“Look at you,” he drawled out. “Calling me ‘Lew’ and pretending we’re still friends after what you did.”

Arthur flinched a little and cocked one brow up in confusion before scuttling back even further when Lewis quickly swooped down to his level, shoving his cracked heart into his face.

“This doesn’t change anything, do you understand?!” he barked, using one hand to pull Arthur up by the collar of his shirt when he tried to shrink away again, while the other pointed to the picture of the group.

Arthur weakly nodded, hoping he would be spared if he agreed.

“This…is a mistake! It shouldn’t be there! It shouldn’t…”

Lewis trailed off and let Arthur drop back down to the ground as the poor man’s sides heaved in both relief and exhaustion, like he had holding in his breath for an eternity.

Skeletal fingers traced around the picture longingly, like he was remembering his previous life. All the good times they had together, even the bad times; all precious memories that he wished would fade away so he wouldn’t have to endure this pain any longer.

“You…shouldn’t…”

“…be there?” Arthur finished for him.

Lewis closed the heart with a forced click.

“Exactly.”

A heavy silence settled between them as Lewis stared down at Arthur for a moment longer, narrowing his glowing eyes before making a "Tsk!" of disapproval and turning his back on him once again, this time with more purpose as he strode towards the front of the truck trailer. Leaving Arthur behind.

Again.

“Well, why shouldn’t I be?!”

He flinched slightly when he saw Lewis pause at the door, his towering figure silhouetted against the full moon. The little bravado Arthur had dissipated as quickly as it had come, and there was a niggling thought at the back of his mind that suggested that maybe he should just let this go. Let Lewis go. It would make his life a lot easier. Hell, maybe he could just retire from Mystery Skulls altogether, lead a normal life as a mechanic at his uncle’s garage.

If he survived tonight, that was.

Arthur shook his head. No, he couldn’t think like that. Not anymore.

“Excuse me?”

Lewis turned his head to the side, glowering at Arthur as if daring him to test him again.

And he did.

“Why shouldn’t I be in the picture?” he asked, his tone wary but stern enough. “I-I have a right to be there as much as you or Vivi or, hell, even Mystery! We were a team!”

“Were.”

“Wh…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play innocent with me.”

“What the hell, Lewis?!” Arthur snapped, finally deciding to stand up to him, both metaphorically and literally. “I don’t deserve this, any of this!”

He gestured wildly around the van, as if he were still in that cave of purple death.

“What did I ever do to you?!”

“What did you ever…?”

A combustion of pink flames swirled violently around Lewis’s body and threw Arthur back into the cave. The roaring of fire drowned out his pitiful cries as Lewis lunged forward and held him up by the neck and suddenly he was over that pit of spikes again. Arthur’s body screamed so much in protest that he almost wished for Lewis to drop him, and to let him fall this time.

“What did you ever DO to me?!”

Arthur flinched as Lewis tightened his grip, and the longer he looked at Lewis’s eyes the more shrunken his pupils became; soon enough he was staring into two soulless black pits.

But despite this, despite the sleepless nights looking over his shoulder, despite that he couldn’t take much more of being rag-dolled all over the place, he couldn’t back down now. This was Lewis. Kind, caring, gentle-giant Lewis who wouldn’t even raise his hand against a fly. He was still in there, somewhere. He just…had to be coaxed out somehow.

Raising his robotic arm – because his other was far too weak at this point – he reached out and brushed his fingers over the cracked heart, feeling its pulse even underneath the metal digits.

“I was looking for you, Lew.”

Startled, Lewis loosened his grip.

“What?”

“You just…disappeared,” Arthur breathed. “Mr. and Mrs. Pepper had no idea where you went, and Vivi had no idea who you even were anymore. It was like you just vanished off the face of the earth, I was convinced you’d been abducted by aliens or some shit.”

He laughed, if you could call raspy wheezing that, and his lungs immediately regretted it; the heat of the flames that licked around them and fumes of smoke not helping. But Lewis’s face of how dare you make casual jokes when you should be begging for your life was just too funny to him.

“We searched all over the states for months, but you didn’t even leave a trail or anything. I was so close to giving up but then…the mansion and well, the rest is history I guess,” he finished with a weak chuckle.

Lewis still failed to see the funny side of it as the cave was swept away in a cloud of purple smog, leaving them back in four enclosed walls. The spectre let Arthur’s limp body slide back down to the ground with a tired grunt and hovered back as if he had been struck down.

“You’re lying.”

Arthur sighed and ran a hand down his singed face, pinching his nose in frustration. He was becoming much less afraid of Lewis and more…frustrated. How much was he going to have to drill it into that thick skull of his that yeah, they were actually friends once?

“Why would I lie about something like that? Wouldn’t you have done the same for me?” he asked.

Lewis seemed to flinch at the question.

“…You would, right?”

He couldn’t believe that he actually had to ask and felt even worse at the fact that Lewis wasn’t answering him. Vivi wouldn’t have hesitated; she was a ride or die kind of girl. Mystery was loyal, even if he did rip his arm off for…whatever reason. It must have been a good one. That’s what he told himself anyway.

Even if his skull lacked the hydration needed, Arthur could still see that Lewis was sweating bullets.

“Well, guess that’s my answer then- “

“You couldn’t have been looking for me!” Lewis interrupted. “Not after you…,” he trailed off, looking to the side, as if in thought.

Arthur gave him an expectant look as he waited for him to finish the sentence, frowning when it never came.

“After I…?” he motioned with his hand, as if it would somehow jog his memory.

But one look told him that Lewis hadn’t forgotten, he just wasn’t telling.

“Lewis, what did I do?” he asked again, his tone changing.

There was yet another moment of hesitation before Lewis finally said, “You really don’t remember, do you.”

Something must have happened in the past that Arthur’s mind had blocked – much like Vivi – something so horrible that it pushed Lewis’s vengeful ghost to come after him with murderous intent.

…Murderous.

A couple of tears pricked at his eyes.

“Remember what, Lewis? Wait, did I do that to you?!” he screamed, the ghost flinching a little as he did.

Arthur desperately wanted to stand, run up to him, shake the confession out of him. But his body refused, so he was doomed to be stuck on the floor in a pit of musty cardboard and impending despair.

All anger melted away from Lewis’s eyes, replaced with…something else.

Sorrow? Regret? Guilt?

He didn’t care.

He wanted answers.

“Goddamnit, tell me what I-!”

A rush of white and blue suddenly crashed in between them from above, and before either could even react a flash of white-hot light blinded them before engulfing the whole truck with a pillar of smoke and fire.

                                                            xxx

Arthur should have been dead; he knew that much. But despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him, it seemed that heaven nor hell had any reservations for him today. Figures.

He stared up at the night sky as his vision slowly came back into focus, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Clearly the truck exploded, hence him lying on a bed of ash with his body covered in charred debris, but what had caused it?

Rolling his head to the side, he could just about make out two blue figures darting and clashing it out in the distance – one was clearly Vivi (how could she even move like that?) –  though steel beams and parts of the truck blocked his vision of the fight, but…what was helping her? Some kind of big dog?

Mystery?

His vision still wasn't the best but Arthur knew he wasn’t hallucinating, he was pretty sure he had seen Mystery like that before; a tall and lean beast with more tails than he could count, when he tore off his arm.

Why was it all so hazy?

Throwing his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment to drown out the confusion. Maybe even calm down a little.

“Arthur!”

Or maybe not.

A small part of him was grateful though as a pair of massive hands heaved the blackened, twisted metal that had been pinning him down and pulled Arthur to his feet, keeping a steady grip on his shoulders when his legs buckled beneath him.

“Are you okay?”

Arthur gave him a dry look.

“Yeah, stupid question. Is anything broken?”

“I thought this was what you wanted.”

Now it was Lewis’s turn to scrutinize, to which Arthur muttered a meek, “Sorry.”

The ghost sighed and swung Arthur’s arm around his shoulder – though he barely managed to reach it – and put his other arm around his waist to keep him grounded.

“Are you able to walk?”

Arthur looked away and managed a weak nod, hoping the heat in his cheeks went unnoticed.

As they traipsed through the uneven rubble – Lewis steadying Arthur whenever his leg got caught on something – the clashing of metal was even more prominent now and…did it suddenly get chilly?

“To answer your question from before."

Arthur side-eyed him.

"I would look for you."

He managed to crack a small smile, "Thanks."

"Not that you'd be hard to find, with those lungs of yours. Vivi would think you were a banshee and drag me with her."

His smile changed to a grimace, "...Thanks?"

The lightened mood dipped for a moment as Lewis paused to look ahead.

"I didn't want any of this."

Arthur stayed silent.

“To hurt you, I mean,” Lewis clarified. “I was just…so overcome with rage that everything else became a blur, I never really stopped to think for a moment that maybe…,” he trailed off then, as if thinking hard on what his next words might be.

Deciding to stay quiet and listen, Arthur desperately hoped he was about to get the answer he needed right now.

“Ah, I think that’s your uncle there.”

His head snapped forward as his gaze fell upon his unconscious relative. With a gasp he loosened himself from Lewis’s grip and surged ahead, despite the ghost’s protests.

“Holy crap, Uncle Lance?” Arthur turned him onto his back and gave him a good shake. “Oh my God, is he dead?!”

“Relax. He’s still breathing.”

“The hell did you do to him?!” he barked back, much to Lewis’s surprise.

“The uh…explosion must have knocked him out,” he flustered, rubbing the back of his magenta hair.

“Explosions don’t punch you in the face.”

“Don’t they…?”  he tried with a shrug but dropped it when Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Blind rage, remember?”

Deciding to ignore him, Arthur just about managed to heave his uncle onto his shoulder, much to his and Lewis’s surprise.

“Must be the adrenaline kicking in,” he figured.

“Isn’t that usually reserved with running for you?”

Arthur deadpanned, before adding, “You’re cracking an awful lot of jokes considering the danger Vivi’s probably in right now.”

That caught his attention.

“Wait. Vivi’s here?!”

“Uh…yeah, didn’t you see her in the van when you were chasing us? Ah, wait-“ he stopped, feigning sudden realization.

“Right. Blind rage, got it.”

“Arthur!”

Before either of them could get into another argument, a terrible rumble shook the earth beneath them as a tsunami of thick blue and white plant vines twisted and snaked through the ground at an impossible speed.

Heading straight for them.

“What the fu-“

“Not her again,” Lewis growled, much to Arthur’s complete and utter bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, her?”

“I’ll explain later, just get ready to run.”

“Wait!” Arthur called out, catching Lewis’s attention. “Just tell me. D…Did I…? Was it…?”

He thought at the very least he would manage to get the question out without becoming a stuttering mess. What little determination he had was gone for good now, replaced with his all too familiar one emotion of fear. His stomach was in more knots than the monstrous plants that towered above them, and now he was doubting if he even wanted to know what crucial little detail Lewis was hiding from him.

The one that, deep down, he already knew.

A heavy but delicately placed hand on his shoulder brought him back from the endless pit that was his guilty subconscious, and as he looked up at Lewis, he was brought back to a time when they were just about to head into whatever dangerous, horrifying excursion that Vivi had planned for the night, and Lewis was the rock that would get them all through it. No matter what.

“There was a time when I would have said yes; that there was no doubt in my mind.”

A jolt of guilt surged through him.

“But now I’m not so sure. It’s not…really as clear as it was before. But I- we’ll… figure it out.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“And if it turns out it really was you, and you’ve been playing me for a fool, then I’m going back to plan A. Sound fair?” he said with a friendly slap on the back that nearly sent Arthur hurtling forward.

“Sounds fair,” he replied with a nervous grin.

In the end, Arthur figured he would probably get what he deserved. But for now, he wasn’t worried about the future.

For it was time for the past to catch up.

xxx

Just a note to say that this isn’t a sequel to my other MSA fic ‘Cave of Regret’, which you can read here!

Apologies for any errors, it’s currently 3am 

What did you think? Let me know!

[redorich]

Out of This World

Niki watches despairingly as her new roommate, one Mr. Wilbur Soot, once again pours water into his cereal. He seems to prefer it that way; Niki can’t help but wonder, not for the first time, whether her roommate is a literal alien from outer space, or just the weirdest motherfucker she’s ever met.

What kind of a last name is Soot, anyway? She thinks to herself unkindly. At least he doesn’t leave dirty clothes on the floor for her to clean up like her last roommate did. But seriously, Niki can’t tell if this man is a crackhead or not.

“Niki, can you pass the salt?” Wilbur says, breaking her out of her reverie. Without thinking, she plucks it from the lowest shelf of the tiny kitchen cabinet and hands it to him. She regrets it instantly when he begins to salt his cereal.

Breathing deeply so as not to grab him by his bony shoulders and shout, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”, she flees the scene of the food crime. When Niki was in college, she was surrounded by people who asserted they had the world figured out. Atoms and gravity and wavelengths. But Niki knows that humanity is desperate to control the uncontrollable, define that which cannot be explained. Science, Niki knows, isn’t just throwing out what doesn’t fit, but rather taking all the data and asking the question, “Why?” So, she thinks, let’s consider the data. 

-------

Niki sneaks trepidatiously to the door to Wilbur’s bedroom. Who knows what sort of unholy, confusing mess he’s got in there, lurking in wait for its next unsuspecting victim. A pinch of guilt hits her. Yeah, Wilbur may be a lunatic, but an alien? Really? It’s a bit uncharitable of her to think such a thing. Shaking herself, she knocks on the door.

“Yes?” Wilbur’s voice carries from inside the room. “Come in.”

Steeling herself, she turns the doorknob with a sweaty palm and is faced with…

A bed. A desk with a computer on it. Two pairs of shoes lined neatly near the closet. Wilbur is taking off his headphones-- he was playing Minecraft. How… ordinary of him.

“Hi, Wilbur. Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted, uh, to see how you were settling in.”

Wilbur smiles his pretty smile. “Thank you. Quite unaccustomed am I to the comforts of-- apartments.”

What Yoda-ass kind of phrasing is that? Niki thinks. A figurine of the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters stares her down from its place on Wilbur’s desk. She meets its eyes warily.

“Oh! Noticed my Ghostbusters statuette, have you?” Wilbur says brightly. “I have more in my closet, if you should like to see them.”

Niki is filled with a sick sense of curiosity. Yes, she wants to see whatever insane thing Wilbur hides in his closet, but she also doesn’t. She idly wonders if Wilbur has ever read The Cask of Amontillado. She feels like he has. This is not comforting.

Wilbur doesn’t sense her hesitation. A small corner of her brain thinks it’s because he’s unfamiliar with human body language. Without pause, Wilbur opens the closet door, revealing…

Niki’s first thought is, where does he keep his clothes? Because the closet is filled with Ghostbusters paraphernalia. The entire. Fucking. Closet. It wasn’t even that great of a movie?? How much did Wilbur spend on this, anyway?

Her roommate misinterprets her blank uncomprehending stare as a marveling gaze. He puffs up proudly.

“Such a profound impact have these movies made! I am truly fortunate to have met a lass of such upstanding artistic caliber, that you should also enjoy the Ghostbusters franchise.”

“Thank you for showing me this,” she says slowly. “I need to-- water the dog. I mean, I left the stove on. At my friend’s house. Uh, see you later.”

She beats a hasty retreat, leaving her apartment for Eret’s place. Something whispers in the depths of her mind: Doesn’t one of the Ghostbusters movies have aliens in it?

-------

Orange is her favorite nail polish color. Eret paints the nails on her right hand in that soft warm shade of orange as he listens to her complain.

“Am I being irrational? Like, do you think I’m going too far?” 

Eret hums noncommittally, putting a little flamingo sticker on her index nail. “He does sound like an unusual person, but I don’t know if I would say he’s an alien.” 

Niki nods her head, since she can’t gesture with her hands. “Okay, yeah, sure-- but he puts salt in his cereal with water. He has a literal dragon’s hoard of memorabilia from shitty movies that came out like three decades ago. And his vibe is just...off. Like when I talk to him, he’s there, but his head’s drifting off somewhere in outer space. God, I’m the worst.”

Eret protests. “Hey, hey, you’re not the worst. Look. I don’t know why this dude is bugging you out so much, but you said he didn’t seem dangerous, right?”

Niki nods dejectedly.

“So, we can figure this out together,” Eret says with a flourish, screwing the top back onto the bottle of polish.

The tender moment is interrupted by Niki’s ringtone. It’s from Wilbur; speak of the devil and he shall appear. Gingerly, so as not to ruin the wet paint on her nails, she picks up the phone and puts it on speaker. “Hello?” she says, motioning for Eret to remain quiet.

“Ahoy, Niki! Wherefore are mine frog legs gone?”

“What?” Eret mouths at her. Niki doesn’t understand either.

“Sorry, Wilbur, what was that?”

“My frog legs,” comes the crackly timbre of a phone in an area with poor reception. “They are no longer in the refrigerator.”

Niki sputters. “Why did you have frog legs in the-- no, never mind. I don’t know what happened to your frog legs, Wilbur.”

The phone line repeats static to her for a moment as Wilbur pauses. “Interesting. Perhaps they walked away, as legs are so oft wont to do. Niki, would you mind dearly to purchase some more? And perhaps, be you willing, some condensed milk?”

Eret silently gags at the idea of frog legs and condensed milk together. Niki doesn’t blame him.

“Okay,” Niki says. 

Eret shakes his head at her, as though begging her not to torture herself like this. The moment Niki hangs up, the first words out of Eret’s mouth are, “That man is one hundred percent an alien. I am so sorry I ever doubted you.”

-------

With frog legs, condensed milk, and an Eret in tow, Niki enters her apartment the following morning with new-found assurance. The rest of the evening goes about as normal as it can, with Wilbur humming nursery rhymes and stirring a pot of, quite frankly, poison. Niki and Eret hide in the living room watching all the Ghibli movies until the only light left comes from the TV in front of them. The front door opens and the floors creak as Will enters. I thought he was in his room?

Eret seems to be on the same page as her. “I didn’t hear him leave,” he says, distant fear in his eyes.

Niki’s ears pick up a faint sound. “Shh!” she hisses. “He’s on the phone.”

Though the apartment is dark (the only light being the TV), Wilbur’s eyes glow like an animal caught on camera. Niki shivers. She only barely catches a glimpse before he ducks back into the entrance hallway, but what she sees unnerves her.

“Philza, calm down,” Wilbur says from the hallway as he takes off his shoes. “It is fine, she suspects not.” 

A pause. The other person on the line, Philza, is talking. 

Wilbur replies, “She was impressed with my Ghostbusters collection, you know-- Ghostbusters is a great movie, fuck off!”

Another pause. Wilbur sighs.

“Aye, I must admit you may have been right on that one. Pretending to be human is--”

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

Wilbur’s head peers around the hallway’s corner in a panic to see Niki and Eret. Niki is pointing her finger at Wilbur with pride on her face, and Eret looks as though he wants to be doing the same thing.

The two in the living room both flush a bit at the outburst, but Niki doggedly continues. “You’re an alien!”

Even though Wilbur’s phone isn’t on speaker, Niki and Eret hear Philza’s laughter from all the way across the room. Wilbur sputters and angrily hangs up the phone, before turning the corner to properly face the two humans. His eyes are actually glowing, it wasn’t a trick of the light, Eret observes. Of course, he also notes that Wilbur’s eyes are the size of dinner plates, and he looks about ready to jump out the window to run from them.

“I am… not an alien,” Wilbur says softly.

“Wh-- but you just said--” Eret says, then cuts himself off when Wilbur phases through the fucking floor.

“He’s a ghost,” Niki whispers, all the pieces clicking into place. Old English, weird taste in food, Ghostbusters are you kidding me. If Niki didn’t just watch her roommate evaporate, she’d be banging her head against a wall and asking her professors to revoke her degree.

Wilbur phases back up through the floor, much closer this time but still hesitant. He sits down a few feet away from the pair of humans nervously. He’s more afraid of us than we are of him, Niki thinks. Like the bears at the zoo.

“For many years, observed the living have I,” Wilbur begins slowly. “I wished to commune with them once again, as one of their own. My father-- Philza-- said unto me that I knew nothing of the modern era. I confess that he was right. Willst you cast me out of your home, knowing now of the spectre that I am?”

Niki tries and fails to suppress the amused quirk of her eyebrow. “How about this: Eret and I show you the ropes of being alive in the 21st century, and in return, you keep the frog legs on your side of the fridge?”

Wilbur smiles that pretty smile again. “Deal.”

-------

“Niki? What is an OnlyFans?”

FIN

[asterian]

Detention (Agent Kallus x reader)

Prompt: 14. “Shut up” “Make me” + neck kisses

Words: 1,364

A/n: sorry about the delay, my life is kind of a mess right now, i hope you enjoy. 😘

"Sir, we caught a rebel trying to pass the blockade"

Spoke a stormtrooper in a formal tone as soon as he entered Kallus' office, gaining the attention of his superior who seemed to be lost in a never ending pile of reports and datapads.

"I'm on my way" Kallus answered without even looking at the trooper who was already out of the room.

Alexsandr sighed tiredly, pressing the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes for a moment, trying to push away some of the stress before getting up to see this rebel.

It had been a long week for the Agent, between commanding the ship, dealing with rebel activity and all the paperwork it comes after every encounter, locating/hiding the rebel base, being Fulcrum and Thrawn watching his every move, let's just say Agent Kallus desperately needed a break.

As he walked through the vast ship he couldn't help but wonder which one of you was captured this time, Bridger? Orrelios? but when he arrived at the docking bay he realized it was worse.

It was Spectre seven. It was you.

Kallus’ eyes widened a bit when he saw you. Out of all the members on the Ghost crew, why did it have to be you? He didn't expect it to be you, in fact he didn't want it to be you for two simple reasons: he was falling for you and hard, but most importantly, you could be really annoying sometimes, and right now it was the last thing he needed.

"Agent Kallus" you said unsurprised as soon as he was right in front of you "no wonder why it smelled like rat" you added, doing your best to pretend you actually hated this man, even though it was a lie.

This was not the first time you've been captured, fortunately Agent Kallus, your very own Fulcrum, had helped you out every single time. At this point you had developed a very curious… relationship, if that could be considered as one, with the imperial agent. So you winked at him when you met his hazel eyes that had already a hidden plan for you.

"To the detention block" he commanded and the troopers obeyed, guiding you through the halls, one on each of your sides while Kallus walked in front of you in complete silence, the only sound you could hear was the boots of the troopers echoing through the empty halls, how boring.

A playful smile curved your lips when you decided that if you were captured you could at least have some fun.

"Do all the agents here shave the same ridiculous way or is it just you?" You teased "do you guys go to the same barber? If so I really pity you and I would totally get why you wear the buckets all the time" You asked the trooper on your right. He didn't say anything.

"You don't talk much, huh?" You continued speaking, trying to see how irritated Kallus could get. "But what about your boss? Hey, Kallus, has someone told you that you smell like a Hutt? No, actually, I bet Jabba the Hutt smells way better than you."

You noticed how Kallus seemed bothered even though you only saw his back and the way he seemed to walk a bit faster, trying to get to the detention block as fast as possible. He was running out of patience, yet he was trying his best to keep calm. And you, oh boy you were having the time of your life.

"Have you ever told these troopers how I once beat you in a fight with just one hit? It's a very short story guys, you'll see I lost my blaster so I had to use my hands so I punch him-"

"Quiet, rebel" Kallus finally spoke looking over his shoulder. His eyes pleading you to stop and you could only smirk at him. This wasn't over, not yet.

"Alright, then why don't you tell me when will you finally give up, Agent Kallus?" You said "You'll never catch us and you know it."

He didn't answer, just limited himself to keep walking.

"Isn't it funny that all the rebels you capture always find a way to escape?"

Finally you arrived to the detention block and Kallus was relieved and mad at the same time.

"Leave us" he commanded "I'll interrogate this rebel myself"

"Yes, sir" the two soldiers said and then disappeared down the corridor.

Kallus used his code cylinder to turn off the cell's cameras as well as to lock down the door before stepping inside the cell with you.

"Do you have an idea of how dangerous it's that you are here?" He protested, a bit of anger and worry dancing on his tone.

"Relax, Kallus" you said calmly while he helped you take off the handcuffs "nobody would notice I'm here or when I'm gone, we've done this before." You turned around to meet his eyes, giving him a teasing look. "It was fun messing around with you, tho" you teased.

"That little game of yours could have blown my cover"

"But it didn't" You added calmly which drove him even crazier.

"You think this is funny?"

"Yeah, in fact it is very funny to me" you told him, oh you knew just how mad he was already, you saw it in his eyes and how he clenched his jaw. So you continued, speaking fast just to annoy him a little bit more. "But you have nothing to worry about, even if those bucket heads find out you're Fulcrum they'll never reveal it. They ain't gonna last a month in battle, unless of course they somehow tell someone else like your boss or-"

"Shut up!" he said, his voice coming out of his mouth a bit louder than he wanted to, making you jump in surprise. You stayed quiet for a moment until an idea crossed your mind.

A bright smirk formed in your lips while slowly you got closer to him until your lips were barely brushing his.

"Make me" you whispered in a challenging and dangerous tone.

That was it.

Next thing you knew the ISB agent pinned you against the wall capturing your lips on a heated kiss that made your eyes flutter close.

His hands travelled down the sides of your body to your hips giving them a soft squeeze before grabbing the back of your thighs and lifting you up with one strong tug, pulling you impossibly closer to him with your legs wrapped around his waist.

He didn't break the kiss, not until both of you were in need of air.

"Stars, you're annoying!" Alex confessed, making you both laugh a bit.

"So I've heard" you said before kissing him again. Your hands moved to play with his golden hair as your mouths danced together.

Kallus kissed a little trail all along your jaw until he found your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses here and there, making a cold shiver run down your spine, and then you felt his teeth on your skin.

"Kallus-" you moaned softly as he continued with his task, nipping, bitting, marking your flesh.

"I said silence, my dear" he murmured against your throat, making you throw your head back to give him more access.

Was the cell always this hot? Was the cooling system malfunctioning? You didn't know and honestly didn't care but you felt your skin burning like Mustafar lava under his touch but it was not enough, you needed more, you needed him.

Taking a handful of his hair, you give it a small tug, just enough to gain his attention.

"Weren't you m supposed to interrogate me, Agent?" you cooed biting your bottom lip, he raised an eyebrow, well aware of your intentions.

"Well, then" Kallus said in his usual formal tone, following your game "tell me, what do you want, rebel?"

"You" There was a dark smirk forming on his lips.

This was going to be a very interesting interrogation.