azuremew: (cillian handgun)
[personal profile] azuremew
Title: Chasing Ghosts
Word Count: 2,045
Pairing: Eames/Fischer, bit of Eames/Fischer/Yusuf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: gunplay, light bondage, non-con, character death in a dream
Summary: From the Kink Meme: In dreams, you can do anything you want with no consequences, as long as you don't get caught.

Character A decides to act out an obsessive fantasy, and tortures, fucks, and kills someone in their dream. It can be someone Character A is in a relationship with, whether consensually or non (maybe Character B doesn't realize they're in someone else's dream?), or a teammate whose mind Character A has invaded, or a total stranger if you like. The snuff film part is voyeurism - maybe a friend of A's wants to watch (maybe A agrees to do it for them?), or someone else snuck in to enjoy the show. Either way, as fucked up and dark as you can make it, and pile on A's guilt, disgust, and self-hatred all you want.

Extra bonus points if Character A is someone unexpected, like Ariadne, Yusuf, Fischer, etc.
Author's Note: Cray-cray!Fischer (one of my favorite kinds) I've thought about revising, adding on, or maybe writing a sequel, but here it is. It was posted anon, but hopefully, HOPEFULLY y'all can tell my style and repetitive use of Everett Forrester, yeah? <3

He rebuilds cities from memory. Sydney mostly. Crystal clear water crashes upon the shore, leaving salty air and tears in his eyes. It's easy to get lost here, but Robert Fischer finds his way. He holds in his pocket a folded piece of paper, faded and torn with child-like scribbles in crayon. They're directions. A to A, B to B, et cetera. Only he knows what it creates, he and the man that follows a few steps behind.

Robert doesn't know his name, but his face is everywhere. The stranger's features keep changing. Different clothes, different masks. Sometimes shaved, sometimes not. But his eyes stay the same. Robert cannot forget those eyes. He swears that he's seen them before, in his home while Maurice was dying. He cannot forget the eyes of that assistant, the one that stole a look and buried himself deep in Robert's mind.

That's what Robert told himself the night's after Maurice's funeral when he wakes startled with sweat along his body and pale flesh. His breathing is harsh, and he still sees him, this stranger staring from his bedroom's doorway or windowsill. Blinking for the umpteenth time, he screams, “GET OUT!” and decides to take control.

At first, he searches agencies and firms, asking for names of men that helped run Fischer Morrow. He contacts Peter Browning to help recall a name to go by. They haven't spoken since Robert declared his intentions to dissolve the company. It's hard, puts a knot in his throat, but he speaks clearly, demanding information.

Like the others, Browning has none. It's as if a ghost walked down those halls, took notes, and left without a fingerprint or signature. He's a shade in Robert's mind.

“Are you sure you're feeling well, son?” Browning asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

Robert doesn't take it well. “I'm fine, Uncle Peter,” he says through gritted teeth, remembering Browning's suggestion to see a doctor, a shrink, for his decision. “I just need some time away.”

He travels to Mombasa, following a trail of rumors that started from the man that militarized his mind. It takes a chemist as much as a dreamer to create, and none are so well known as a man named Yusuf. His shop is covered by herbs, spices, and potions in cobalt blue jars or hung in the sill. It smells lovely, taking the stench of sweat from Robert's nose. He breathes it in and looks around.

“Can I help you?”

Robert turns. “Yes, I was looking for someone that might be able to help me.” He notices the man's face, how startled he looks before trying to school his features. It's as if the man knows him, but Robert shakes it off, taking his notes as nothing.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Dreams, or rather a way to experience them more vividly.”

“Ah, then I think perhaps I can help you.”

He starts off slow. Walks down Main Street towards the market where he bought coffee before work or the park where he jogs to keep in shape. In the corner of his eye he sees his mark, the shade, but if he stops and turns, the shade is gone.

It takes a few attempts before Robert can finally catch the bastard. Memory serves him of a time vivid like a memory of rain and a taxi cab. He walks out and hails one, talking to on his phone about a board meeting. There, it happens. A reoccurring dream plays out in pristine perfect condition. Robert gets in, and on the other side, his mark joins him.

“What're you doing?” Robert asks, playing his role.

“Sorry, I thought it was free. Maybe we could share.”

Robert smiles. “Maybe.” Tables turn, and from the passenger side of the front, a projection points a gun at Robert's mark. “Who're you? Tell me.”

“Everett Forester,” Everett says. “From Port and Dunn . . .”

The name clicks, but Robert shakes his head. “There is no Everett Forester from Port and Dunn. I checked, double-checked.” From beneath his jacket, he pulled out a 99 mm, brings it close to Everett's forehead. “Give me your wallet.”

Shakily, Everett does what he's told, fumbles around his pockets for a leather wallet. “Here, here you go.”

Robert opens it, looking first at the driver's license. Sure enough, Everett Forester is there. He searches it for more clues, finding a business card from Port and Dunn. Lies. All lies. He throws the wallet back at Everett and keeps his gun steady. First time he's held a pistol and it feels just fine.

They arrive to the warehouse where Robert remembers being taken, and out of the corner of his eye, Robert sees more projections surrounding its perimeter with guns in hand. “Out,” Robert commands once they are passed the door and it's shut tight.

He stands back while the driver and side passenger pull off Everett's suit coat and undo his tie. They pat him down, searching for secrets until all that's left is Everett in a wife beater and blue boxer briefs, knelt on the ground with his hands tied behind his back.

Robert crouches down to Everett's level. “Now lets try this again. We'll piece it together. I'll tell you what I know, and you'll tell me the truth, okay?” he says, caressing Everett's cheek with his pistol. “I've seen you before. At my home, and on a plane. You were flying to Maurice Fischer's funeral, weren't you? Same as me. But in my dreams, I've seen you a hundred more times. In this taxi, snowy mountains, and a hotel. You're always there.” He nudges his pistol against Everett's lip. “Tell me why.”

Everett whispers, and Robert can't quite hear him. Robert pulls back, and with a resounding crack, strikes Everett across the cheek. It's enough to send a bit of blood against his hand, down Everett's lip. Robert smiles and pulls back the release as if to say, 'Try again,' and Everett answers more clearly, “Mr. Charles.”


“From security,” Everett explains. “There were men sent to find out your secrets, and he's you're security.”

“And why don't I see Mr. Charles here?” Robert asks.

“Maybe it was my charm.”

That earns Everett another smack across his other cheek.

“Your secrets,” Everett says. “We needed to know everything about you, and I was best at the job.”


Everett nods.

Robert smiles. “Then you'll get everything.”

Yusuf gives Robert his privacy at first, even showing the man how to the PASIV works, about dreams and how they work. It's remarkable to hear what Robert already knows from his previous training. He goes about his business, selling dreams to sleepless strangers and experienced alike.

It's after Robert inquires about Mr. Charles that Yusuf becomes concerned. “He's subconscious security, a device some dreamers use to protect themselves,” Yusuf explains, and Robert seems to believe him.

He goes downstairs while Robert is dreaming and pats softly along Robert's pockets, ignoring how stiff Robert's cock has become. Inside of Robert's slacks he finds papers folded into quarters with notes scribbled along them. Mr. Charles is there, so is Everett Forester, and all the levels. More importantly, there are sketches of Eames's face with bold writing above it: HE IS REAL. I HAVE TO FIND HIM.

Yusuf considers contacting Eames about this, but Robert is here, far from the forger, so he goes about his business and leaves Robert be.

Robert looks refreshed after a week of dreaming but he's more determined than ever to find this Everett Forester. “Do you know who he is?” Robert asks, showing Yusuf his drawing for the first time.

“I'm afraid not. Besides a device, I've never seen him before.”

He hopes that lie is enough.

One night, Yusuf lets his curiosity get the better of him. For scientific purposes, he tells himself over and over while waving out his dream watcher and settling into the bed nearby Robert. He wants to log what side effects the inception caused. That's why, and with a slip of the needle into his skin, he falls deep into slumber.

His eyes open to the hotel, second level, but Arthur and the others are nowhere to be seen. Room 528 has its door wide open, and he hears soft moaning. Sneaking in for a closer look, Yusuf's eyes go wide.

Robert stands fully-clothed in his three-piece suit, hair immaculate and smile sinister. His gun lies in one hand, keeping it steady with his finger on the trigger while the barrel is is three-quarters deep in Eames's swollen mouth. He holds Eames's hair with his other hand, tightly gripped while forcing the slick, cold metal further in. “That's it,” he whispers soothingly, hauntingly like a caring lover. “Take it all. You wanted it.”

Bang. Eames falls back, the back of his skull a white, gray and red mess.

Yusuf runs out, escapes before Robert wakes up to go to the bathroom and vomit.

Yet he goes in a second time, and then a third.

It's the fourth when Robert notices. “You can come out now,” he calls out.

Yusuf walks over, watching more so Eames sprawled over Maurice Fischer's desk. It's Sydney again at Robert's home. He remembers the stories, short descriptions Eames gave him. Now his friend lies spread and prone, his ankles tied to desk legs and cock leaking. Eames's ass is red, almost bloody, from a riding crop in Robert's hands. He's whimpering, begging incoherently, “Show me more. Give me more.”

“Bloody hell,” Yusuf whispers.

“Don't tell me this doesn't strike you,” Robert says and slips a finger passed Eames's tight ring. It gives him a high-pitched cry and earns Eames a second down to the third knuckle. “You've been watching for days now.”

Asking if whether or not Robert's telling the truth doesn't matter, not compared to the slick sounds coming from Eames's hole. He knows this as his throat becomes dry and Robert brushes his crop against Yusuf's aching cock.

“Ah, don't tell me he's yours?” Robert asks.

Yusuf shivers. “Not exactly.”

“He can be,” Robert says, slipping out and stepping aside. He crosses his arms. “Go ahead, take all the time you want. We can call it payment for your services.”

After almost a month, Robert sets a sealed envelope on Yusuf's desk. He feels better. His answers haven't quite been found, but there's a bit of closure in his thoughts and that might be enough to escape his nightmares. For the first time since Maurice's death, he slept without dreaming of that man, Everett Forester.

Yusuf looks it, then at Robert. “Keep it.”

“For what? It's what I promised. Half then, half now.”

“Your silence,” Yusuf explains and pushes the envelope toward Robert. “No one needs to know you were here or what we did.”

“Ah,” Robert says simply, taking it. He licks his lips. “Don't want any of your colleagues overhearing what you did to Mr. Forester, eh? Sure.”

Yusuf shudders and nods, and Robert stuffs the envelope back into his pocket. “I hope you have everything figured out then, Mr. Fischer.”

“Enough,” Robert says and shrugs. He picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. As he exits, his shoulder bumps into someone else's that is entering the shop. “Hey, watch it!” he yells and blinks, seeing at first olive green pants and this shirt that looks like one of Uncle Peter's after his trip to Hawaii. It does nothing for Robert until their eyes meet, but he gives the cold shoulder this time, muttering, “Excuse me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Robert leaves, shoving his hands into his pockets until his far enough away from that shop. Safe, he pulls out his paper with its adult-written instructions, and follows them to create a pinwheel. Only after its complete does he allow a moment to breathe and plan his next move to meet Everett Forester face-to-face.
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
Account name:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
HTML doesn't work in the subject.


Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

January 2014

   1 234

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 24th, 2017 06:53 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios