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FIC: If Bird or Devil (2/2)
Title: If Bird or Devil (2/2)
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins, JDM/JA
A/N: In which Jeff is a professional dom, Misha is his boy, and Jensen is a catalyst. Mythological themes.
No one knew who had taken her home. No one had heard her struggle. She was a stranger in town, and though after the fact many people claimed to know her, that night no one had missed her. She would have waited much longer to be found if it hadn't been a motel. A cleaning woman came in to retrieve towels; it was no nobler a rescue than that.
The carpet was thick with blood. Investigators coming into the scene later would be driven out, gagging, by the smell of iron and other things. There was no dignity in her death. The murderer had not left her any. Her organs dragged on the floor and released their hidden messes, piled around her bare feet. Her spine lay naked to the light, the skin peeled away from her back and arranged in a mockery of curling, leathery wings. She hid her face as if in sorrow, her palms nailed to her cheeks, but she had no secrets now. She would have fewer when the press came and flayed her life from the bone, looking for dire warnings to deliver on the 11 o'clock news.
There were no notes, no fingerprints, no boastful letters delivered to the police addressed from hell. There was only a woman dead in a motel, her face buried in her hands.
******
The loft's in the old warehouse district, artistic types in their pricey lofts crowded next to rough men who've lived there forever. Jeff half-expects Jensen to balk at how distant their house seems, but Jensen relaxes more as they get farther out. It's a quiet drive, the rain sluicing down in winds that drove it slanting across the headlight beams.
You could give him a lecture now, whispers Jeff's conscience. You're not taking him home to hold his hand and lend him books.
"Jensen." Jeff's voice comes out rough, the top voice. He clears his throat. "You new in town?"
"Yes." Jensen is crisp, still staring out the window. He has one hand on the door handle, like he might throw himself into traffic at any time. "I'm in town on business. From Dallas."
It sounds like a rehearsed speech. Jeff glances at Jensen, whose expression reveals nothing, and then back at the road. "I'm from Seattle, myself. You miss home?"
For a long few seconds, Jeff doesn't think Jensen will answer. Then, in a voice softer than his stiff body, Jensen murmurs, "Sometimes."
There's a story in that one word, a vulnerability Jeff doubts Jensen realizes.
"You're new to the scene," Jeff says.
Something shifts in Jensen. He doesn't turn, but Jeff can feel Jensen watching him from the corner of his eyes. Jeff thinks of a cornered stray, crouched down and ready to bite. "I am. You teach new subs."
With a nod, Jeff forces his attention back to the road. "What you did tonight, with Scott... did you have a safeword?"
Jensen lets go of the door handle and turns his body towards Jeff. Jensen drawls, "I'm not with Scott anymore."
"I noticed that," Jeff says dryly, "but--"
Jensen reaches his hand out, resting it on Jeff's thigh. His nails catch on the denim of Jeff's jeans, the upholstery squeaking as Jensen leans his body into Jeff's side. His scent rolls over Jeff, soap and sweat and something beneath it, a tang of metal. "You worry too much," Jensen whispers, and drags his blunt nails up Jeff's thigh.
Jeff hisses, his head falling back against the rest. Jensen did it again, harder, his fingers digging bruises before reaching the inseam of Jeff's jeans and cupping...
"Is it because of her?" Jensen's voice rubs along Jeff's nerves like a cat, circling, hell on his balance. His fingers play a wicked game. "The one who died. That murder. Rachel something?"
Jeff's fingers tighten on the wheel. "Renee."
"Renee," Jensen sighs. "Right. The one who died. All carved up. He nailed her hands to her face, did you know? Made her look like she was praying--"
The neighborhood's quiet, most of the workers gone and the residents in for the night. Jeff would like to think that he remembers that before he brakes in the middle of the road. He grabs Jensen's wrist with a practiced hand, digging his thumb between the bones. Up close, he can see a spatter of freckles across Jensen's cheekbones and the dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Careful," Jeff says, biting off the word.
Jensen's eyes burn with fever, brighter than before. "She came to you for help. So you took her money, and you fucked her--"
"Shut up," Jeff snarls.
"-- and you hurt her. You carved her up. So fuck your safewords." Jensen doesn't seem to feel the pain of Jeff's fingers digging into his arm. He's somewhere else, beyond pain, radiating fury. "They kept her body for months. We didn't have anything to bury. She was, she--"
A chill slips up Jeff's spine. "Who are you?"
One blink, one breath, is all it takes before Jeff has a knife at his throat. Jensen's nearly on his lap, pressing the blade's edge so hard into Jeff's throat that it's a struggle to breathe.
"She was pregnant," Jensen says. So eerily, deadly calm. "My girl was pregnant, and you killed her."
Jeff's head throbs, heavy with air loss and adrenaline. He thinks of Misha, of Bisou waiting at home to be fed, of his mother. He thinks of Renee, the shy pretty client who crept across his lap and wept when he told her she was forgiven. Of what the murderer left of her, strung up and flayed, a parody of an angel. Jensen's wrist lays in his hand; Jeff could break it, he could hurt him.
"I didn't kill her," Jeff says. It hurts to talk; he feels wetness slide down to his chest, smells the copper of blood.
"Liar," Jensen murmurs, voice dead.
"No," Jeff says. His eyes burn, but he's afraid to blink. Afraid to break the trembling connection between them. "Believe me. I didn't kill her."
Jensen inhales, a deep breath after nearly drowning, and starts to speak, when something crashes into Jeff's windshield. There's a whipcrack sound, a flurry of dark wings, a lurid blossom of blood on his windshield. Then the chaos dies into abrupt silence.
Through the spiderweb of broken glass, Jeff can see the crumpled body of a raven on the hood of his car.
Jensen stares at it, breathing shallow. "No," he whispers harshly, then wrenches away from Jeff. Jeff catches a glimpse of the knife, its bone handle and slick blade, before it's hidden again in the folds of Jensen's jacket. Jensen twists in his seat, going to open the car door, and Jeff realizes: he's going to run. He's going to disappear.
Every goddamn night, Jeff wonders who killed Renee. He's haunted by her ghost.
The door opens, bringing in the damp chill of the night. Jeff grabs Jensen's arm and jerks him to a stop. Jensen's head whips around and he looks hard at Jeff, disbelieving. Jeff can't quite believe this himself.
"I didn't kill her," Jeff repeats. "But--"
"I know." Tugging against Jeff's grip, Jensen says, "Let go of me."
"-- but this isn't the way to find who did. You won't find her killer at Fringe. There are other places, but you won't get in by yourself." Jensen's heartbeat flutters under Jeff's hand. Jeff rubs his thumb over the pulse point, and feels Jensen shiver. How long has it been since he's been touched without it hurting? "Let me help you."
Eyes narrowing, Jensen asks, "Why would you?"
"Renee was a good woman."
The grief stirs behind Jensen's expression, raw, consuming. It'd have to be, to drive a man to this. He'd have let Scott cut him up, fuck him; he'd do anything just to make it stop. Then the vulnerability's gone, replaced by the flat calm mask. "Yes," Jensen says. "Better than me."
The cut on Jeff's throat throbs and stings. Slow, easy, Jeff shifts his grip to better pull Jensen back into the car. "I can help you. Just come with me and--"
Jensen wrenches loose and is gone, like he was never there. Jeff can't see where he went, no trace of him in among the studios and the warehouses.
"Fuck," Jeff says with great feeling, then reaches out and pulls the door closed.
As he drives home, watching the shadows for Jensen, the rain slowly washes the blood away.
Authors:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins, JDM/JA
A/N: In which Jeff is a professional dom, Misha is his boy, and Jensen is a catalyst. Mythological themes.
No one knew who had taken her home. No one had heard her struggle. She was a stranger in town, and though after the fact many people claimed to know her, that night no one had missed her. She would have waited much longer to be found if it hadn't been a motel. A cleaning woman came in to retrieve towels; it was no nobler a rescue than that.
The carpet was thick with blood. Investigators coming into the scene later would be driven out, gagging, by the smell of iron and other things. There was no dignity in her death. The murderer had not left her any. Her organs dragged on the floor and released their hidden messes, piled around her bare feet. Her spine lay naked to the light, the skin peeled away from her back and arranged in a mockery of curling, leathery wings. She hid her face as if in sorrow, her palms nailed to her cheeks, but she had no secrets now. She would have fewer when the press came and flayed her life from the bone, looking for dire warnings to deliver on the 11 o'clock news.
There were no notes, no fingerprints, no boastful letters delivered to the police addressed from hell. There was only a woman dead in a motel, her face buried in her hands.
******
The loft's in the old warehouse district, artistic types in their pricey lofts crowded next to rough men who've lived there forever. Jeff half-expects Jensen to balk at how distant their house seems, but Jensen relaxes more as they get farther out. It's a quiet drive, the rain sluicing down in winds that drove it slanting across the headlight beams.
You could give him a lecture now, whispers Jeff's conscience. You're not taking him home to hold his hand and lend him books.
"Jensen." Jeff's voice comes out rough, the top voice. He clears his throat. "You new in town?"
"Yes." Jensen is crisp, still staring out the window. He has one hand on the door handle, like he might throw himself into traffic at any time. "I'm in town on business. From Dallas."
It sounds like a rehearsed speech. Jeff glances at Jensen, whose expression reveals nothing, and then back at the road. "I'm from Seattle, myself. You miss home?"
For a long few seconds, Jeff doesn't think Jensen will answer. Then, in a voice softer than his stiff body, Jensen murmurs, "Sometimes."
There's a story in that one word, a vulnerability Jeff doubts Jensen realizes.
"You're new to the scene," Jeff says.
Something shifts in Jensen. He doesn't turn, but Jeff can feel Jensen watching him from the corner of his eyes. Jeff thinks of a cornered stray, crouched down and ready to bite. "I am. You teach new subs."
With a nod, Jeff forces his attention back to the road. "What you did tonight, with Scott... did you have a safeword?"
Jensen lets go of the door handle and turns his body towards Jeff. Jensen drawls, "I'm not with Scott anymore."
"I noticed that," Jeff says dryly, "but--"
Jensen reaches his hand out, resting it on Jeff's thigh. His nails catch on the denim of Jeff's jeans, the upholstery squeaking as Jensen leans his body into Jeff's side. His scent rolls over Jeff, soap and sweat and something beneath it, a tang of metal. "You worry too much," Jensen whispers, and drags his blunt nails up Jeff's thigh.
Jeff hisses, his head falling back against the rest. Jensen did it again, harder, his fingers digging bruises before reaching the inseam of Jeff's jeans and cupping...
"Is it because of her?" Jensen's voice rubs along Jeff's nerves like a cat, circling, hell on his balance. His fingers play a wicked game. "The one who died. That murder. Rachel something?"
Jeff's fingers tighten on the wheel. "Renee."
"Renee," Jensen sighs. "Right. The one who died. All carved up. He nailed her hands to her face, did you know? Made her look like she was praying--"
The neighborhood's quiet, most of the workers gone and the residents in for the night. Jeff would like to think that he remembers that before he brakes in the middle of the road. He grabs Jensen's wrist with a practiced hand, digging his thumb between the bones. Up close, he can see a spatter of freckles across Jensen's cheekbones and the dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Careful," Jeff says, biting off the word.
Jensen's eyes burn with fever, brighter than before. "She came to you for help. So you took her money, and you fucked her--"
"Shut up," Jeff snarls.
"-- and you hurt her. You carved her up. So fuck your safewords." Jensen doesn't seem to feel the pain of Jeff's fingers digging into his arm. He's somewhere else, beyond pain, radiating fury. "They kept her body for months. We didn't have anything to bury. She was, she--"
A chill slips up Jeff's spine. "Who are you?"
One blink, one breath, is all it takes before Jeff has a knife at his throat. Jensen's nearly on his lap, pressing the blade's edge so hard into Jeff's throat that it's a struggle to breathe.
"She was pregnant," Jensen says. So eerily, deadly calm. "My girl was pregnant, and you killed her."
Jeff's head throbs, heavy with air loss and adrenaline. He thinks of Misha, of Bisou waiting at home to be fed, of his mother. He thinks of Renee, the shy pretty client who crept across his lap and wept when he told her she was forgiven. Of what the murderer left of her, strung up and flayed, a parody of an angel. Jensen's wrist lays in his hand; Jeff could break it, he could hurt him.
"I didn't kill her," Jeff says. It hurts to talk; he feels wetness slide down to his chest, smells the copper of blood.
"Liar," Jensen murmurs, voice dead.
"No," Jeff says. His eyes burn, but he's afraid to blink. Afraid to break the trembling connection between them. "Believe me. I didn't kill her."
Jensen inhales, a deep breath after nearly drowning, and starts to speak, when something crashes into Jeff's windshield. There's a whipcrack sound, a flurry of dark wings, a lurid blossom of blood on his windshield. Then the chaos dies into abrupt silence.
Through the spiderweb of broken glass, Jeff can see the crumpled body of a raven on the hood of his car.
Jensen stares at it, breathing shallow. "No," he whispers harshly, then wrenches away from Jeff. Jeff catches a glimpse of the knife, its bone handle and slick blade, before it's hidden again in the folds of Jensen's jacket. Jensen twists in his seat, going to open the car door, and Jeff realizes: he's going to run. He's going to disappear.
Every goddamn night, Jeff wonders who killed Renee. He's haunted by her ghost.
The door opens, bringing in the damp chill of the night. Jeff grabs Jensen's arm and jerks him to a stop. Jensen's head whips around and he looks hard at Jeff, disbelieving. Jeff can't quite believe this himself.
"I didn't kill her," Jeff repeats. "But--"
"I know." Tugging against Jeff's grip, Jensen says, "Let go of me."
"-- but this isn't the way to find who did. You won't find her killer at Fringe. There are other places, but you won't get in by yourself." Jensen's heartbeat flutters under Jeff's hand. Jeff rubs his thumb over the pulse point, and feels Jensen shiver. How long has it been since he's been touched without it hurting? "Let me help you."
Eyes narrowing, Jensen asks, "Why would you?"
"Renee was a good woman."
The grief stirs behind Jensen's expression, raw, consuming. It'd have to be, to drive a man to this. He'd have let Scott cut him up, fuck him; he'd do anything just to make it stop. Then the vulnerability's gone, replaced by the flat calm mask. "Yes," Jensen says. "Better than me."
The cut on Jeff's throat throbs and stings. Slow, easy, Jeff shifts his grip to better pull Jensen back into the car. "I can help you. Just come with me and--"
Jensen wrenches loose and is gone, like he was never there. Jeff can't see where he went, no trace of him in among the studios and the warehouses.
"Fuck," Jeff says with great feeling, then reaches out and pulls the door closed.
As he drives home, watching the shadows for Jensen, the rain slowly washes the blood away.
no subject
This was excellent, and I want to go home and slowly reread both parts to soak it all in.
Also, there will be a sequel, right? Right? Pretty please.
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Will there be more?
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I am wondering if Jensen's some sort of psychic :\
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That was pretty damn intense and completely disturbing in a totally fascinating way.
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Oh, I can't wait for more! :)
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Awesome story. :)
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Good story.
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Thanks for the great chapter! =)
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I echo the others and hope fervently that there is more. :)
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But my nerves are still getting an odd vibe from Misha's request. Is that usual, asking your dom lover to pick up a guy and have sex with him "the way we do", when you're away?
I hope Jeff finds Jensen again, or Jensen comes to him, like a stray looking for home...because Jeff could be really good for him, and I'm betting the time invested would pay off like hell. *nods vigorously*
Jeff gave Renee "forgiveness". How much of that was role-playing, and how much was some burden she might have had? She was pregnant-was it wanted? Is Jensen seeking revenge because he loved her and is mourning, or feeling guilty for some reason? *speculates wildly*
Your fics make me spin with the possibilities.
Ah-Bladerunner! That's the other one I was thinking of-that kind of cinematography...:)
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But damn that was the least likely development I expected after the first part and I LOVE IT! To pieces.
Please, I'm begging you, on my knees, with cookies (and sexual favours too if you weren't married already) to please don't leave us with just those juice hints of more lurking in the shadows you dropped all over this little piece of art and torture.
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Your writing continues to impress me further and further.
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Will you be writing more of this?
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But is it really finished? I'm not convinced it is. ;)
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I- I don't know what else to say.
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raven-verse 1
It's easy to believe that something as beautiful, reckless, and dangerous as Jensen is something a little more than human. Either way, hooks set, tension on the line.
no subject