Pairing: Ichabod/Abberline (non-con) That's right! Screw the time difference...my
Rating: R...maybe NC-17. Focuses more on thoughts and emotions than the actual sex.
Summary: Basically...Abberline rapes Ichabod on top of his desk. There's probably a lot more to it than that...but who really cares?
Feedback: God, yes. I'm really sort of insecure about whether or not I got this to work or not, and I'd love to hear what you guys think.
X-posted slightly. Sorry >_<.
When I started writing this, it was very early in the morning, and I was half-inspired, half-not tired enough to go to sleep. The first few times I read it over, I thought that perhaps I'd made Abberline too much of a jerk, but then I remembered how he behaved in the movie. Underneath the anger, he's a broken man with a sweet disposition and a great capacity to love...but when he's been at the bottle and someone really pisses him off (take the young man at the desk whom he calls a "fucking idiot" or something. He was pretty short with that dude) he'll go off on them like a rocket, not to be cliche. Personally, I think Ichabod is adorable, but I'm trying to see him how I think Abberline would, and that's as an annoying, stubborn know-it-all. This fic is mainly based on something Johnny said in an interview or something about how if these two characters ever met, Abberline would just hate Ichabod. So yes, I tried to keep them in character, tried to work around the time difference (1799-1888) and I've used my artistic license with the encouragement of some of my friends. Sorry if the first bit seems long and boring. I really wanted there to be some kind of forward before just jumping into the plot part of the story. Hope you like it ^^.
"Weren't expectin' ye tonight, Constable," he purred darkly, a brown cigarette dangling from his pale lips as he lit the oil lamp on his desk. The dancing orange flame cast dark shadows across the Inspector's face as he rapidlyshook the match to estinguish it, a disquieting smirk playing arcross his mouth. Ichabod swallowed, tried to ignore it as best he could and began to speak.
"Nor was I planning on reporting to you...but I think I've discovered something about this case which may be of particular interest--" Ichabod's eyes flitted up from the sheaf of notes he held in his hands and travelled to his partner, who was standing on the other side of the room with his hands near his crotch. It was too dark in the small room to see precisely what the other man was doing, but Ichabod didn't like it, whatever it was. Abberline's hands had disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers far to long for them to just have been satisfying an itch, and Ichabod smelled the unmistakable stench of fish from where he stood on the other side of the dark room. "Excuse me...what are you doing?"
Abberline had not engaged in any sort of sexual activity, aside from petty masturbation, since his wife had passed away nearly nine months before. For a man who is accustomed to making love at least twice a week, though not so often when his wife's pregnancy began to crecendo severely, that is a very long time to be without sex. A lifetime is also a very long time to not do something which you are about to do. He was aware of this fact, but he was equally aware that there is a first time for everything, and though Ichabod was a mite more effeminate than himself, he was reasonably sure that the other man had never engaged in intimate activities with another man.
"Bugger yer notes," he said gruffly, walking toward Ichabod, one hand still hidden beneath the top of his pants. "I don' want te think about the case, now."
Ichabod swallowed and clutched his papers tightly in his sweaty hands. He did not ever remember seeing this particular feral gleam in Abberline's eye, and it made him more uncomfortable than anything had in a very long time. He moistened his lips with a flicker of pink tongue and tried to speak but his vocal chords refused to cooperate, and all that came out was a strangled squeak. The pitiful noise only broadened the disturbing smirk that had planted itself in the corner of Abberline's mouth, and Ichabod felt his blood run cold. He doubted if he could have felt more frightened and intimidated had he been faced with the devil, himself.
Abberline couldn't help but notice that his member had grown considerably since he'd first begun lightly stroking it beneath his trousers, but not because of the physical contact, though that undoubtedly helped. It was Ichabod's fear that aroused him so, filling his cock with hot blood and making it grow, ensuring that this experience would be all the more painful for the whelp standing, practically trembling before him. He could smell the young man's fear, and soon he would be close enough to taste it. His own malevolence surprised him, and he may very well have been able to convince himself to stop, to reconsider, to send Ichabod away with only a small scuff-mark as evidence of their meeting, that night. But for some reason, he needed more. Whether it was because he was sick to death of the lonely pit of emptiness his life had become, or because he felt the need to combine his usual release of anger with that of a more sexual nature, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he needed this. He'd convinced himself of it, and as soon as he'd heard Ichabod's simpering voice at the door, he knew he had to have it.
"B-but...this could be important! I really wouldn't have brought it to show you if I didn't think--"
"Shut up!" Abberline shouted, grabbing Ichabod's notes and yanking them away with such force that they left small stinging cuts on Ichabod's palms.
Ichabod jumped at Abberline's sudden outburst but forced a quick recovery upon himself. The papers, which had been neatly organized, were now strewn all over the dirty wooden floor where Abberline had carelessly discarded them. He was far more upset about this than the nearly microscopic lascerations on his hands, but Abberline would not have let him move if he tried. He was holding him in place with an fiery glare which seemed to come from the very depths of Hell. Ichabod did not budge.
With one swipe of Abberline's arm, papers flew everywhere and littered the floor around them as though they had been scattered by a gust of mighty wind. Even the oil lamp had been knocked over, broken but not shattered. Thankfully, the flame had not been very high to begin with, and had extinguished on the lamp's journey to the floor. An open bottle of ink lay overturned on the desk, its black contents bubbling out all over the smooth wooden surface and dripping silently onto the floor, below. After it all, he remembered thinking How could I have let this happen?. The truth was, Ichabod never held any control over the situation, and there was no point in lying to himself anymore. All he could do now was vow to himself that he could never let anything like that happen again.
He wasn't sure why, but ever since Ichabod Crane set eyes on Frederick Abberline, he was instantly aware of the hatred that pulsed behind the older man's calm dispostion. He could almost taste the inexplicable anger and scathing words that hid just beneath the barely opaque shell which encompassed his entire body but could not manage to contain his aura. It glowed red whenever the men were in the same room together, which was rather often of late. Unfortunately for the both of them, they'd been assigned to the same case again, and would have to work in rather close proximity to each other for at least the next few weeks or so. Cases like these were rarely solved within a fortnight, but they were the most brilliant minds in all of the constabulary, and due to this were partnered up rather more often than either of them would have liked.
Had either man simply taken the time to cool down, let the barriers drop and talk to one another, they would have discovered that they had quite a lot in common. Both were extraordinarily intelligent and far-sighted, little pieces of revolution floating through the back-alleys of London, waiting for their backwards world to acknowledge them. The old Abberline, the man Frederick had been before the incident earlier that year, would probably have gotten on quite well with Crane. They might have even been friends, but all that the patient, calm man of yesteryear could have overlooked was now thrown painfully into Abberline's awareness. It is always a pity to think of what could have been, but a friendship with Ichabod Crane was certainly not at the top of Abberline's list.
His hands were held firmly behind his back by one strong hand as he was shoved head-first into the pool of ink. How one man could manage to be so strong, so much more powerful than he was, Ichabod didn't know. He felt horribly weak, inexplicably humiliated, and so very small. He shut his eyes tightly but his mouth remained wide open, emitting whimpers and horrified shrieks that could not be stifled, not for lack of trying. What was happening to him? One minute he'd been standing across from the other man, afraid, yes...but that fear was barely a shadow of the terror that shook him now. He tried his best not to inhale the spilled ink as his face was pressed more firmly against the desk top. He felt the grip on his wrists tighten and the fabric between himself and Abberline's exposed, fully erect member being all but torn away. It was no use. One of his nostrils was completely submerged in the puddle, his mouth remaining wide open as he gasped for air.
Ichabod cringed as Abberline's saliva-slick finger jutted into his hole. The tight ring of muscle contracted reflexively around it as it slid in and out of him, making the entry even more unwelcome and uncomfortable. When a second finger slid in to keep the first comany, he could have sworn he'd heard the sound of something being torn. Fabric, perhaps. He knew it was all just his imagination, but as a third finger popped in to aid in the assault on his virgin rectum, imagination was actually quite helpful. He tried his best to put it to good use, to let it take him to a warm, happy place, where there was nothing. Alas, it did not work, and he was torn from the heavenly back yard of his childhood with pink, sweet-smelling blossoms and soft grass just as soon as his mind had been able to plant him there.
Abberline spread Ichabod's cheeks as wide as they would go and entered him with a gutteral growl and a powerful thrust. Ichabod died, or at least he wished he could have. His own cock and bollocks were crushed between his thighs and the hard desk, and he felt his knees buckle below him from the pain, not that it mattered. The desk was preventing him from collapsing. He could not get any lower, though he felt as though he'd just plummetted into Hell.
Neither of them were happy about their inconvenient placement. Inconvenient for Abberline because he couldn't stand the snivling little worm, and inconvenient for Ichabod because he couldn't stand taking instructions from the man, who was barely five years his senior, if that. However, he was Ichabod's superior, so he could (and would) order him about like he was the king of England. When Ichabod simply couldn't pull himself down from his high horse, Abberline would do it for him, possibly with a pinch of violence if he found it appropriate, and he usually did. Frederick Abberline, as Ichabod came to realize very early on in their partnership, was a very angry man. He didn't know why and had never thought to ask. Part of him, the part which felt like a frightened child every time Abberline raised his voice, didn't care why the man did what he did, only that he did it all the time, often without good reason. He was resentful, and couldn't care less about the man's motives. Still, he couldn't help but be a little curious, and had thought once or twice of speaking to some of his fellow officers about it. But they didn't seem to like him much either, and so he kept away from them for fear of tacking a few more names onto his list of bullies. Thankfully, as of now it contained only two names; Frederick Abberline and the boogey man.
He couldn't breathe this way. His head was being pressed into the desk with one merciless hand as the other kept his wrists clasped behind his back. The sweat stinging his papercuts was the least of his worries. He coughed and sputtered a spray of black all over the desk, choking and spitting until finally, he managed to clamp his mouth shut against the pained moans that were being pumped up from the pit of his belly with each cruel thrust. Why is this happening? How can this be happening??
Abberline drank a lot. Ichabod was always catching him taking sips from his little metal flask or the bottle he kept in the second drawer of his desk. It was rumoured that he spent a fair amount of his off-time (and some of the time while he was supposed to be on the job, too) chasing the dragon at the opium den on the far side of town. Ichabod frowned on this highly immoral habit, for he was a man of principles who swore he would never chase the dragon unless the bastard had stolen from him. Ichabod prefered not to go anywhere near that part of town, not because it was overrun with foriegners or because it was dirtier than the areas of town he tended to frequent, but because it would have been another excuse for Abberline to wollop him. Abberline seemed to be very territorial, like a lion who'd all ready marked his territory and was now waiting in patient silence under a nearby bit of foliage, just waiting to pounce. Ichabod was afraid. He didn't like to admit it, but Ichabod had been afriad all of his life. Ever since he was a little boy, there'd always been something to be downright terrified of, and if there wasn't, his overactive imagination made something up. He was only in his mid-late twenties, but he'd had enough experience with fear, both rational and irrational, to write a novel on the subject which would put the most long-winded of authors to shame. It was to put an end to this life-long struggle with fear that he had joined the police force. Currently, it wasn't working out very well and his goal seemed far out of sight. But if one positive thing could be said about Ichabod Crane, it was that he was determined, focused, and very stubborn.
He became frantic and felt his entire body begin to tremble uncontrollably. He'd managed to turn his head to the side, just enough so that at least breathing was possible. He let out a low sob, followed by a series of small, quiet whimpers, practically unaware that the pitiful noises that rang in his ears had come from him. His lips tried to form the words "please stop" but did not get very far, and so all that came out were choked sobs and wails. Abberline didn't seem to notice and continued to bang into Ichabod's sore backside so forcefully that the desk was beginning to shake. The drawers rattled, their contents shook within them, the floorboards creaked below them, and on went the torment.
The truth about Abberline was known to very few people, only one of whom actually cared. A man's wife and unborn child can die, and it will undoubtedly be viewed as a tragedy in the eyes of at least one observer. In this case, the only truly sympathetic observer was Sergent Godley. He had been Abberline's closest friend for years, always watching out for him, and now, always dragging him out of the den, sometimes at the last minute. He had no idea the intensity of the blows, both physical and verbal, that young Constable Crane suffered on account of his friends' irrepressable anger, but he did know how much the younger man irritated Abberline. Perhaps irritated was too gentle a word to describe the sheer animosity Abberline felt for the young constable. For the life of him, Godley could not figure out why. Sure, Crane could be a little aggravating, and he did come off as a bit of a know-it-all, but he was a breath of fresh air compared to some of the pompous bastards he'd had to deal with, back in the day. He thought it best to leave it alone, because it, unlike everything else in Abberline's disintegrating life, was none of his business. For some reason he felt it wrong and just plain unnecissary to meddle in his friend's affairs with slightly annoying constable. Ichabod did good work, that was what he cared about. If something very noticable took place, something which could simply not be ignored under any circumstances, such as a full-out brawl between the two men, (unlikely--Godley had not seen Ichabod strike back, even once) or an instance in which Abberline took it a little too far, then would be the time to step in. But for now, he would simply sit back, still watching Abberline like a hawk, but otherwise minding his own business.
He wondered why he was still concious, at all. He usually didn't have a very high tolerance for things that frightened him or caused him pain, and this did both, yet he was still awake. Even more than that, he was painfully aware of everything that was taking place. The ink stung his skin and threatened to seep into his eyes, though they were tightly shut. The smell of it was one among many things making his stomach turn. The taste of ink was bitter on his tongue and bile burned the back of his throat. Saliva seeped from the corners of his pursed lips and migled with the salty tears and ink on the desk top. God, he hoped this would be over soon. If it wasn't, he would surely be sick. Every thrust, each harder and deeper than the last, brought the promise of The End, yet it seemed so far away. If only he could get there, he knew he would be safe. He'd come across many obstacles in his life, yet everything had always been all right in the end. But soon, he began to wonder if the end wouldn't bring about his end. Part of him hoped it would, that the hot burst deep inside him would simply bring death with it and he would never have to think of these few horrible moments ever again. But he knew that, though it hurt him badly both physically and spiritually, he would come out of it alive. Ichabod used to believe that which does not kill you will only make you stronger, but after a lifetime of terrors, the sound of the house settling back into place at night still made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He still jumped whenever lightning crashed, and the sight of blood still made him a little more than queasy. This belief, like so many others, quickly turned to dust and was blown away by a harsh, vicous wind. He felt anything but strong.
Abberline knew that he wasn't really angry at Ichabod. The man (though Abberline saw him more as a boy, or sometimes a being quite a lot lower than that) was a mere annoyance at the very worst, but anger needs some outlet. God could not be punched in the jaw, or smacked up-side the head. Fate could not receive insults or respond to harsh words. Ichabod served as a substitute for all intangible and/or possibly non-existant entities at whom Abberline's anger should have been directed. This wasn't to say that Ichabod was not extremely irritating at times, always speaking out of turn, always presuming to know everything, always forgetting his place. So what if he had a more cultured accent than Abberline? So what if he'd come from a better part of the country? So what if his parents had been wealthier than his own? According to the Inspector, Constable Crane was a lesser being and was to be treated as such. He didn't understand why the younger man did not ever get the message, why he didn't simply stand down and at least attempt to extract himself from the line of fire. Why did he insist on getting in the way all of the time?
Only Ichabod knew why, and he would not have been able to tell Abberline even if he'd bothered to inquire. It was because he was tired of being afraid. He'd felt the need to stand up for himself for years, and he viewed this as the perfect opportunity. Abberline intimidated him, it was true...but somehow he wasn't as frightening to Ichabod as some of his past antagonists had been. For one thing, the two men were approximately of the same height, build and weight, with Abberline being just a tad larger. Undoubtedly the older man was stronger, but he was drunk so much of the time that Ichabod was convinced he could best him, if absolutely necessary. Such an occassion had not yet arisen, and Ichabod was relieved, for though he appeared very arrogant and self-confidant, he was very little of either, and only pretended to be to stay alive. Unfortunately, it were these very survival tactics that sparked the desire in Abberline to threaten Crane's life, in the first place. Oh well, he would get it right, someday. For now, he was most concentrated on standing his ground, doing a good job, and not getting fired. He had a feeling that the reason why Abberline had not yet fired him, or would ever do so in the immediate future was the same reason he took his anger out on him in the first place; to vent. Though it may have been painfully obvious to anyone else, Ichabod still wasn't exactly sure why he was the most worthy candidate for recieving Abberline's expectorations of fury. All he knew was that, though he didn't like it, he would continue to stand his ground, do his job, and take it like a man.
With an animalistic grunt and one final jab into Ichabod's aching backside, it was over. He could feel relief spilling into him in synch with the other man's seed, but it left him just as quickly as the softening member was removed from his bleeding orifice. The majority of the physical pain was over. All that was left were bruises and little cuts where nails had puncutred his tender flesh. He doubted if he'd be able to sit down or walk properly for a week, but he didn't think about that. He couldn't think, at all. But he did feel. Shame, hurt, shock, confusion... He clung to the ribbons of his shredded dignity, but as soon as the body behind him was removed, all that had been holding him up was gone and he toppled over backward onto the floor, too exhausted and shaken to move.
Sergent Godley took another puff from his pipe and expelled the sweet smoke with a sigh. His wife and children had all gone to bed but he'd found himself unable to follow suit, for sleep had been short in coming lately. He spent countless hours every night worrying about his dear friend. Where he was, what he was doing, if he was all right...it was enough to drive a man insane. Sometimes Godley wondered if that wasn't what Abberline had become since the passing of his dear wife and son. The laughter had long since gone from his eyes, the warmth and happiness had left his smile, and all of his passion was buried six feet below the frozen ground with their cold, lifeless bodies. He shuddered to think of such morbid things and pulled his dressing robe more tightly around him to try and ward away the chill he suddenly felt in his bones.
As he turned the page of the newspaper he'd been trying to read for the past half hour, he once again attempted to reassure himself that Abberline was fine. At first it seemed to have worked well enough, and he was able to finish an entire two paragraphs of an article before worry set in again and stopped him from going any further.
"To hell with it," he cursed, folding the newspaper sloppily and tossing it into the fire burning in the fireplace. "I've got to see what he's up to before I go mad."
Without another word, he draped his robe over his chair, slipped on his shoes, grabbed his overcoat and left in search of what he needed to be able to sleep soundly for what would be left of the night when he returned.
As he drifted into blissful unconciousness, Ichabod recalled the porcelain doll he'd been given to play with as a small child. Tiny and delicate, the doll had been his mother's and was very dear to him, though he'd never played with it much on account of it being a girl's play-thing. But every night before he went to sleep, he would take it down from the shelf above his bed and kiss it good-night. One night as he was reaching up to bring the doll down for its nightly kiss, his father had appeared suddenly in the doorway, saying Ichabod's name in a voice that still made his blood run chill to think of it. Young Ichabod had been so startled that his grip on the doll had been lost, and it slipped out of his hands and crashed onto the floor. Ichabod hadn't needed to look down to know that the doll was broken. He remembered being sad because he'd never been able to give it one last kiss good night.
He'd come quite close on a number of occasions to knowing exactly what the poor little broken doll had felt like in that instant when its delicate body hit the cold floor, but had never been able to fully grasp it until now. He was completely destroyed, his spirit shattered into a thousand tiny porcelain pieces, strewn across the floor along with the papers, various writing utensils and empty liquor bottles. Just before he lost conciousness completely, he wondered if he would, unlike the unfortunate play-thing, ever get that kiss good-night. He wondered if anyone would ever be able to remove this pain from his fractured soul.
To be continued. I wanted to put Godley into the story, since he was mentioned in the insertions, I suppose you could call them, describing Ichabod and Abberline's relationship. This just kept getting more and more complicated as it went on, but that's okay. I'll (hopefully) continue this later, but it's late now, and I've gotta get up early tomorrow. Hope this wasn't too painful to read >_<.