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concussed-to-pieces · 1 month ago

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Arbiter's Solstice; Part One

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Pairing: Eventual Karl Heisenberg/AFAB!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

Summary: There was a soft, liquid sound that you had grown to recognize as him running his tongue over his teeth, but the former lord offered no true reply to your impudent question. Instead, he remarked, almost idly, “do you know what happened to Miranda?”

A/N: I yield, I yield. Had to chop this up into a few parts and start posting them, otherwise I never would have gotten it finished. Welcome to an AU of extreme proportions, featuring multiple of my most favorite tropes in media. Enjoy!

Tag List: @stargazerofgoldenwords @cookiethewriter @crookedmoonsaultpunk @colesterstrudel @spoopyredacted @velvet-paradox @kotall-ohh @katreneebug @missjasmine98 @sunflowers-and-swear-words @savage-rhi @nova-ivy541 @xyaswrlldd @the-videodame @luvley-shadow @akashiiiiii @nerdygirlgamer1972 @problemdawgz

[If you were tagged in error, please let me know and I’ll remove you!]

[DISCLAIMER: The last Resident Evil I played was Resident Evil 1. I have not played Resident Evil Village. I have, as ever, extensively dug into the wiki and other available resources, yet I know I am by no means an expert on the subject matter. I ask only for leniency and your charity in this endeavor, as well as forgiveness for any out of character moments or glaring mistakes. Thank you so much for your interest!]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore, mentions of death, canon-typical violence and extreme depictions of mental and physical duress. Stay safe!]

When the elderly Mother Miranda had passed due to an extremely harsh Winter, the Lords had fallen briefly to infighting before partially uniting under the bloody banner of Dimitrescu, much to the dismay of House Heisenberg. There upon the bleak fields of the Heisenberg estate two nightmarish armies had met in a final clash, and the Soldats of Lord Heisenberg succumbed.

For his crimes of attempted usurpery, treachery and deceit, Lord Heisenberg was stripped of his lands and title and confined to the dungeons of Castle Dimitrescu, where he was drained of his previous strength by blood wards and terrible magics. Every year on the solstice since then, a new servant was chosen to attend to him, both a great honor and a devastating burden.

It had always been this or that, and you found that you could endure this.

…

Into a life of servitude you had been pressed at a very young age. Cleaning the floors, setting the table, trimming candle wicks. Once you grew strong enough it turned to bringing buckets of water in from the well for the kitchen or slopping the pigs, oiling the tack and saddles and mucking out the stables.

It had always been either this or that, and while you had survived this long, you knew you hadn't the strength to endure much more of the mistreatment at the hands of Lady Alcina and her…lovely daughters.

Then, you were Chosen. A great honor, so they said, reserved for only a select few. You were, of course, not released from your usual tasks. This was just one more thing for you to manage.

A terrifying lord, a ferocious fighter, The Iron Horse.

You knew the prisoner had been all those things and more, for all that he was incapacitated now. Indeed, the former Lord Karl Heisenberg seemed to linger in a dreamlike half-conscious state, so devoid of the purported verve and brimstone of his past. All that remained of that man he had been (from what you had heard, anyway) was the way he bolted his food from the proffered tray like a hungry vârcolac, hardly pausing to breathe, his unkempt facial hair often matted with the gruel-ridden remains of his meals. Food was the only thing to rouse him from his doldrums, and so it was food that was brought to him.

Every week since you had been picked to become Heisenberg's handmaiden you made the slow, trembling descent to the cell he had been bound to, a flimsy wooden tray in your hands. But it was either this or that, and you could endure bringing gruel-slop to an incapacitated prisoner, the occasional attempts to clean food off his face or blood from his back. At the very least, it kept you out of sight of the other lords for a few extra moments. It was technically safer. Technically.

Until the day when Heisenberg raised his head to look at you.

…

You nearly leaped out of your skin, startled to the point where you dropped the tray. It hit the floor with a loud bang and you crouched for a moment, curling into yourself defensively.

There was a loud snort and you heard the creaking of the ropes that bound him, but you didn't dare to look up. You began fumbling to get the bowl back onto the tray, grateful that it hadn't spilled much. The Lady was more than content to give Heisenberg nothing but the dregs of the kitchen, and sometimes not even that–

You felt hot breath huff out over your head and your hands clenched on the tray. He must have lowered his head again, adjusted himself somehow. A sharp nose nudged the crown of your head and there was a rattling inhale.

“F-Forgive me, my lord.” You stared down at the tray, internally panicking as you watched the bowl begin to quiver due to your nervous shaking. “I did not mean to disturb you.” Truthfully, you had bumped his upper arm with the tray when you stumbled on the uneven, crumbling floor, but he had actually responded to the touch, his head snapping up with alarming speed. Normally the only thing that would get him to move was the bowl placed beneath his nose.

You raised the tray so that he could eat (operating mainly off of muscle memory), and you were horrified when you accidentally caught Lord Heisenberg's gaze through his hair. His eyes felt like they were burning you alive, the intensity of that half-lidded chartreuse stare making you want to flee. Blessedly it was only for the scantest of moments that he studied you, the former lord soon returning to his meal with the dispassionate attitude of a large predator ignoring prey not worth their time. You averted your own gaze, uncertain of the punishment that could be exacted for making eye contact with the Iron Horse.

Heisenberg slurped at the bowl, the meager contents of which began to trickle down his chin and into his wiry, unkempt beard. Once more operating out of habit, you reached forward with a corner of your apron. You often wiped his mouth after he was finished eating, otherwise whatever he ate would mat into the disarray of facial hair he sported. Today however, the former lord’s tongue made quick work of the dribbles before you could even reach them.

His nose grazed your outstretched hand. “Th--ank…you.”

You knew your sudden gasp was rude, but you had also never been thanked once in your life. Servitude was expected, anticipated, demanded of you, why would anyone ever…

It had sounded like it was difficult for him to speak. He had never spoken before, you didn’t even know he could! You needed to respond, you had to say something. You finally managed to whisper, “y-you're welcome, Lord Heisenberg,” your grip tightening on the tray handles.

“Everyone else…” Another long, eternally long pause. It was so long, you wondered whether he had gone back to sleep. “...fears me. Hates me.” Those green eyes met yours once more, and you could have sworn there was the faintest gleam of curiosity. “Not you?”

Your swallow was too loud. You cringed on reflex, frantically trying to think of a response. It was true, most of the other villagers spoke poorly of the former lord. Some would even go so far as to spit when they mentioned him, and the Lady certainly harbored no great love for him. Honesty, you decided, the Lady would want me to be honest.

“You are a prisoner and…and you have not been cruel to me.” Your voice trembled slightly. “I see no reason to be cruel to you.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and your stomach lurched terribly when you noticed, for he was smiling. “Oh, but I can be. You have no idea the cruelty I'm capable of.” The rasp of his voice lent a horrendous sense of surety to his words; you did not doubt that someone who was a sort of sibling to the other lords could be extremely cruel.

There was another agonizingly long pause. Your breath came quick and sharp. He seemed to be waiting for something from you, much as you didn't want to continue the unnerving conversation. “W-Well, you haven't been,” you managed to repeat weakly, praying that you wouldn't be punished for your blunt observation.

Heisenberg grunted, shifting his weight slightly. After a moment you heard his breathing even out. He had drifted back to slumber, then, or whatever his kind considered as such. You allowed a sigh of relief to escape you, then scurried out of the cell.

…

It was a week later that you made your way back into the dungeons, the tray bearing the usual bowl with various refuse from the week's meals and, safely hidden in your apron pocket, a few precious pieces of venison from dinner's herb-studded pot roast. It had smelled delicious while it was cooking; even now, hours later, your empty stomach twinged with hunger at the memory of the scent.

Being a humble servant you were, of course, not permitted to eat at the Lady’s table, instead subsisting off of much of the same scraps that Lord Heisenberg did. However, you could at least take your items from plates left behind on the table, instead of the kitchen’s slop bucket for the pigs. While they didn't exactly eat, Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters often pantomimed at dining, which led to half-mangled leftovers that you could safely manage to survive off of. The Lady Beneviento and Lord Moreau were the only ones who truly ate at mealtimes, though Lady Beneviento would often painstakingly cut her dinner into tiny bites to feed her strange doll for most of the meal.

When you went to feed Lord Heisenberg, the Lady Dimitrescu would stand over you as you poured the slurry from the bucket into a bowl, watching like a hawk to ensure her ‘dear brother’ wasn't ‘getting more than his due’. It was the most nerve-wracking part of your chores. Too little and she would scold you, “do you want Heisenberg to perish?”, but too much led to you being pitched across the room while the tall woman raged wildly overhead. There was no consistency either; some days you were barely permitted to cover the bottom of the bowl, while others had the bowl overflowing with the foul mixture. You supposed it was all down to the whims of the Lady, nothing more complex than that.

You wiped the sweat from your brow, frowning when you touched a tender spot. For all his simpering, Lord Moreau bore the burden of an explosive temper, the Piscean lord having lashed out at you earlier over a soup that was ostensibly too thick. Perhaps the temper was a family trait? Regardless, you were lucky that you had survived his outburst with nothing but some bruising. You knew many villagers had been torn limb from limb by the troubled lord, so you did your best to avoid garnering his attention for good or ill.

The cell (which was more of an enclosure really, a holding pen made of some sturdy, nearly-black wood) was damp, cold year-round and rarely frequented by the odd stray rat or crow. It wasn't exactly a sealed or watertight environment; the stone walls and stairs were coated with slimy moss and tiny trickles of water from the reservoir. But something about the area seemed to make most ordinary creatures give it a wide berth. Perhaps it was a combination of the smell of blood and the wards carved into that strange wood? You tried not to dwell on the subject, finding that the longer you thought about it, the more your skin crawled.

“My lord?” You called your usual greeting, grateful when he stirred at the sound of your voice. Some days it was harder than others to rouse him to consciousness. “Your meal, Lord Heisenberg.”

Just as he always did, Heisenberg hungrily tucked into the slop. While he was thus preoccupied you cautiously took one of the pieces of venison you had procured from the table and slipped it into the bowl with a soft plop. Despite your attempt at stealth the former lord seemed to immediately take notice if his sudden pause was any indicator. Again that stare was leveled at you, drowsy eyes somehow still managing to pin you in place.

“Where–did you get that?”

You hadn't expected him to speak to you again. You took a moment to recover from your shock, eventually getting out, “th-the dinner table, sir.”

His only response was a wordless grunt, the man quickly digging his teeth into the bloody, herb-laden bit of meat. A soft groan escaped him as he swallowed and you couldn't help the flush that heated your face, fixing your attention pointedly on the tray in front of you.

“I have more for you. I've already eaten.” You lied rapidly before you could think better of it, fishing around in your apron pocket for a moment. Heisenberg's expression, what little of it you could see through the curtain of his hair, had gone wary. Yellow-green eyes drifted sluggishly from your outstretched palm to your face, then back to your hand. “If you don't eat it, it will go to waste.” You insisted, trying for a reassuring smile.

The ropes binding him creaked suddenly. He lowered his head and you felt cracked lips, sharp teeth and a warm tongue barely graze your palm, then he was withdrawing to devour in peace. You exhaled as subtly as you could, trying your hardest not to seem terrified. Why on earth had you offered it to him in your hand?! He wasn't some tame beast, he was Lord Heisenberg! You were incredibly blessed to still possess your fingers.

He had left one piece in your hand. You looked up, confused, but he had already buried his face in the bowl anew to finish off the last of the slop. Nervously you tucked the final bit of meat into your mouth, chewing it slowly to savor it as much as you could.

“Thank you.” The lord's voice sounded slightly stronger, much to your surprise.

“O-Of course, m-m-my lord.” You stammered, trying and failing to keep your tone from squeaking.

The ropes hummed slightly under the strain of Heisenberg's motions, the man adjusting his legs beneath him until he was nearly able to stand properly. He loomed over you, still hunched somewhat, grunting in what seemed to be effort. You pressed your back to the wood behind you, bracing yourself for whatever might come next.

His nose brushed the bruise on your forehead and you flinched. “Moreau.” The animosity in his tone made you want to crumple, for all that it didn't seem to be aimed at you. The man inhaled, the subsequent growl coming from his chest. “-and the colossal bitch.”

“My lord–” you attempted to protest, assuming he must mean the Lady Alcina.

“Dinner was exquisite.” Heisenberg said abruptly, his eyes looking more alert than they ever had to your memory. “I'd be honored if you'd join me again next week.” His voice still sounded ragged, but he no longer had to pause between words.

Your knees shook beneath you but you managed a nod. After all, you didn't have much choice. You had to bring him his meals, otherwise it was back to Alcina and her spawn. It was always either this or that, and you could handle this.

Probably.

…

Sneaking Lord Heisenberg bits of unspoiled food from the dinner table became normal over the following weeks as the spring-gray valley shifted into the forest green of summer. Discarded chunks of meat and gristle, bits of bread, fruits that were a touch too ripe to catch the fickle attentions of the ladies of the village…Lord Heisenberg accepted every meager offering you managed to provide with a rough sort of gratitude, always inclining his head even if he didn't manage to speak. Talking seemed to tax him greatly, though certain days found him nearly alert, and he was not so prone to drowsiness as he once was.

“Where are you when you aren't bringing me my dinner?” He queried unprompted one evening, glancing up at you.

“I…” you hesitated. The man obviously bore no fondness for Lady Dimitrescu, perhaps you ought to lie about your usual occupations? Nothing good ever came from being untruthful, though. “I tend to Lady Alcina and her daughters.”

He grumbled, “That explains the smell.” While you were trying to decide whether you ought to be offended, the former lord shook himself bodily. His arms, bound to the wall behind him by those strange ropes, made a few distressing cracking noises and he grunted, this time sounding pained. “Can you–my back is…” he trailed off, trying to straighten up.

“Oh, of course.” You placed the tray down, pausing uncertainly by his shoulder. He had evidently been whipped recently, his back covered in half-healed lash marks. The tattered remains of his shirt were stuck to a few of the wounds and so you gently peeled it free, assuming that was what he needed in order to make himself more comfortable.

“Thank you.” His mouth was right next to your ear when he spoke, causing you to flinch at his husky whisper.

“W-Whatever you need.” You mumbled, keeping your eyes on the floor while you retreated. You weren't certain what then possessed you to ask, “does it…does it hurt when she does that to you?”

Overhead, a crow that had been pecking at the bars cawed loudly, the sudden noise making you start. There was a soft, liquid sound that you had grown to recognize as him running his tongue over his teeth, but the former lord offered no true reply to your impudent question. Instead, he remarked, almost idly, “do you know what happened to Miranda?”

Miranda. Mother Miranda? “She…we lost her to the winter. It was a-” your brow furrowed as you tried to recall what Lady Alcina had called the illness. “-pneumonia?”

Heisenberg roared; it took you several terrified moments to realize that he was laughing hard enough to make him wheeze. The crow took flight in a frightened rush. “Pneumonia, that's a fucking riot.” He finally snorted, shaking his head. “As if that old hag could be taken out so easily.”

“Don't–!” You began to protest before your brain caught up with just who it was that you were speaking to. Those strange yellow-green eyes leveled at you, as if he was daring you to continue. “Don't speak about her like that.” You finished, your voice barely a whisper.

“Were you even born when all that happened?” Karl sounded incredulous, but not irritated. Heartened, you shook your head, only to be battered by his harsh tone a moment later, “so you know exactly fuck all.”

“I know what I've been taught,” you replied tartly, “just like everyone else. Lady Dimitrescu is very thorough with our histories.”

Heisenberg rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like a sulky teenager. “As I said. Fuck all.”

You jerked upright, seizing the tray and marching out of the cell with the sound of the former lord's half-crazed laughter ringing in your ears.

You wanted to be infuriated, you wanted to be upset at his insinuation. But…

What could he know about Mother Miranda's death? It was true, you hadn't even been born when Miranda had passed. All you knew was what you'd been told by the Lady, what you had read in the histories of the castle.

What did Karl know that you didn't know? Was there more to the story than what you had been led to believe?

…

As the summer solstice drew near, preparations began to get underway for the annual festival. With the extra work you were hard-pressed to bring Heisenberg his meals in a timely manner, often stumbling down the stairs exhausted well after the sun had set.

The former lord seemed to regress somewhat as the solstice approached, no longer raising his head when you visited and simply waiting for his food with a vacant expression. Not that you were looking at his face! Absolutely not, you knew better than that. You simply assumed, that was all.

One evening you tripped on your hem, taking a nasty fall at the bottom of the stairs that knocked the wind out of you. Tears welled up in your eyes while you laid there on the hard-packed dirt, your scraped elbow resting awkwardly against the wall. A quiet little hiccup made its way out and you heard Heisenberg stir in his cell, the ropes creaking much louder than you expected.

“You–alright?” He called, voice grating harshly. “Anything broken?”

“Fine, I'm fine.” You grumbled, mainly to yourself, wiping the tears that had managed to escape. “Just winded.” You rolled over, moving to try and collect the tray and its spilled contents. Luckily the bowl had sloshed over onto the tray itself instead of the floor, and the prize in your pocket was unharmed. You breathed a sigh of relief, getting to your feet.

A low, raspy chuckle issued from the imprisoned man. “That's the first time you've talked to me like I was a real person.” Terrified by your momentary lapse in propriety, you tried to stammer out an apology. “Nothing wrong with it, sweetheart. If anything…it's a comfort to know I'm human to you.”

Sweetheart. A casual endearment, a kind way of addressing you. You were flushed immediately, continuing to stutter as you tottered your way across the floor. “U-Um, with dinner, I…” you finally paused, pulling free the precious loaf of herb-infused bread. “I found this. F-For you.” You knew the lie was weak, you knew he knew exactly where you'd gotten the bread. You had taken it directly from the ovens, wrapped it in a napkin and snuck it out before setting the table for the evening meal. It was your first and only act of true thievery, and you just prayed that no one would notice its absence. You didn't think you would survive that beating.

The former lord's eyes met your own and your heart started to hammer in your chest the longer he stared. He had never made such prolonged eye contact with you. It was terrifying, but…you didn't want it to end, either. Confused, you attempted to ignore that desire and instead tore a small piece off the loaf, extending it to him in the palm of your hand. He had never expressed any annoyance with your odd behavior and so you had persisted, but today…

Heisenberg's eyes narrowed. For a moment he reminded you of the animal you had once seen him as, the man refusing to break eye contact as he leaned down to eat from your palm. You chose to avert your eyes, more than a little bewildered by how you felt. His teeth delicately latched down onto the bread and you immediately retreated to pull off a fresh piece, the herbs staining your fingertips green as you did so. You were startled when he licked your fingers next, instead of simply taking the bread as he had before. Without intending to, you let out a surprised little squeak.

The lord’s eyes shot back up to your own and, while you couldn't precisely tell through the thick, matted facial hair he sported, you were almost certain that he was smirking at you. “What's wrong? Afraid I'll snap them off?” He chuckled. Truthfully you had actually considered that and he must have noticed the shudder which ran through you, because he quickly continued, “I'd be an idiot to bite the hand that feeds me, sweetheart. Especially after you've been so…accommodating.”

“I don't-” you paused, debating on just how brave you wanted to be. “Why does she keep you down here?”

“Fear.” Heisenberg's teeth flashed while he chewed his next bite. “I'm strong, even like this. I'll tear her throat out and she knows it.”

You balked. “You would fight the Lady?”

Lord Heisenberg shrugged as best as he could manage. “Why not? Something to do, right? Maybe I'll have better luck this time.”

This time.

“How many–”

“Can I get some more of that bread?” Heisenberg interrupted before you could finish your question, his attention fixed pointedly on the remainder of the small loaf in your hand.

“Oh! Of course, I'm sorry.” You pulled off another piece and gave it to him, marveling slightly at the docile way he ate it out of your palm. It was thrilling in a way, like gaining the trust of a skittish creature. You doubted he would be fond of the comparison, though. He didn't strike you as the docile type despite his current state.

“Alcina and I were close once, you know.” Heisenberg continued to chew the bread almost meditatively after he spoke, leaving you to await his next sentence with baited breath. “I was loyal to her, if you can believe that.” The former lord's expression darkened. “A faithful little mongrel.”

Your heart sank. “What happened?”

He didn't deign to answer you for several minutes. You had all but given up hope for a response when he spoke next. “Ambition.” The word was sneered, derision dripping from every letter. “Alcina didn't want to kill sweet, helpless Mother Miranda herself, but she sure as hell could get someone else to do it.” Karl’s sigh echoed in the cell. “And get someone else to take the fall for it when the old witch turned up dead. Pneumonia,” he scoffed, “she's sanitizing. That bitch and I both know what happened that day, and we both know why she went after me so hard.”

“To keep you under her control?” you ventured timidly.

Heisenberg's grin was full of more teeth than you'd like, most of them stained a dull green from the herbs in the bread. “To keep me from ripping her apart for her betrayal.” He clarified, his tone an odd singsong. “You should have heard what she promised me, that Amazonian fuck. My own village out of the valley, my own dominion, freedom. And like a blind fool, I…” He trailed off, his burning gaze going vacant.

“You believed her.” Now this, you could sympathize with. The Lady Dimitrescu had always been cruel to you, but it was the occasional softening of her tone, the honeyed promises she would make and break to you and the rest of the servants… ”I'm sorry.”

The former lord bared his teeth again. “I won't make that mistake again,” he hissed. “Someday, someday–she'd better watch that enormous back of hers.”

“Why does she whip you, then? I feel like that's…er, not intelligent.” You tried to be delicate, the guilt from speaking poorly about the Lady pricking your conscience.

Heisenberg lolled his head in your direction. “Blood, sweetheart. She's in the wine business and I guess my affinity for my…gift makes me a pretty decent vintage. Almost as good as her sweet little virgins.” The former lord stared at you thoughtfully for a moment, then closed his eyes. He abruptly seemed exhausted, his body going slack in his binds.

You took that as your cue to leave, carefully retrieving the tray and rising to your feet. As you turned to depart, however, Karl spoke up once more.

“Keep coming back to me, will you?” He requested, his voice soft. “We don't have much longer.”

Your brow furrowed in concern, but you nodded obediently.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, you were surprised to find Lady Beneviento's favorite doll, Angie, propped up in the corner of the landing. “Now how did you get there?” You mused aloud, wiping your hands clean on your apron before you carefully picked the doll up. Angie's eyes, as ever, seemed to follow your every move, and you couldn't help but marvel at the skilled craftsmanship that permitted such an illusion. “I'd better get you back to Lady Beneviento, little miss. No doubt she's missing you.”

Later that evening once you'd bedded down for the night, you found yourself tossing and turning despite your exhaustion.

‘We don't have much longer’. What could he mean by that?

…

Apparently what he meant was that you would be an integral part of the binding ritual on the solstice. You had always assumed (perhaps naively) that Lord Heisenberg's handmaidens were reassigned to serve in one of the lesser houses after their year of service, but now the whole horrible truth was being laid out neatly in front of you.

Sacrifice, human sacrifice. A handmaiden every solstice to keep Heisenberg bound, virgin blood spilled by the House Dimitrescu as was their want.

You had been dragged from your bedding in the lightless hours of predawn, barely aware of what was occurring before a burlap sack was thrown over your head and you were struck hard enough to lose consciousness.

You drifted in and out, the burlap difficult to breathe through. Someone was moving, shifting, carrying you for what seemed like hours until suddenly, freezing cold stone met the backs of your legs. You jolted to full awareness at the shocking chill, realizing as you did that your legs were bare to the knee and whatever you were wearing was not what you had worn to sleep.

The sack was torn from your head and you immediately darted your eyes around, fear and panic welling up as you realized you had never seen this room before. Some secret chamber in the bowels of Castle Dimitrescu, if you had to guess.

A marble altar beneath you piled high with dead branches, shallow channels etched into the marble flooring, and…

And the former Lord Heisenberg kneeling beside the altar, his head bowed and his hands bound in front of him.

You barely had the time to ponder that curiosity (why on earth would someone tie Heisenberg's hands in front of him?) before your attention was redirected to your own predicament. Your arms had been secured at the wrist and elbow, hands folded at the small of your back. From the ache of your muscles at the unnatural position, you could assume you'd been bound for a while. You were quickly realizing, to your dismay, that you were hardly clothed. Your normal garb had been replaced by a thin stained shift, only just long enough to brush your knees.

“Awake, awake, awake,” came the reedy voice of Lord Moreau, and his large, damp hand clumsily brushed your cheek. “Finally awake! Little morsel, l-l-little treat.”

You were unable to hide your revulsion, flinching back from his touch. The Piscean lord looked momentarily teary, but he quickly mastered himself and rewarded your lack of manners with a sharp blow to your face. The strike sent you tumbling off the altar, your shoulder meeting the marble with a hard thud. You bit your lip, willing yourself to stay quiet. It was always worse if you gave a reaction.

There was an infuriated-sounding gurgle and then Moreau was seizing your arm hard enough to make you cry out, the lord dragging you to your feet and tossing you back onto the altar as if you weighed nothing at all. “Be silent, be silent, Alcina trusted me with this.” He spoke half to himself, his webbed hands roiling over one another while he paced. “She's so busy, so busy, she trusted her favorite-”

“That super-sized bitch wouldn't trust you to wake up in the morning.” Heisenberg groaned. “This is sloppy work, Moreau. We've never done a pyre and the branches aren't even dry, you stupid fuck.”

“Don't call me that!” Moreau shrieked, his voice breaking. “Mother said-”

“Miranda's dead,” Karl interrupted him flatly. “She's dead and nothing that any of you do will bring her back. That old hag is rotting where she belongs.”

Moreau burbled wordlessly, clutching at his head before wailing, “stop saying those things about Mother!”

“Dead. Old. Bitch.” Heisenberg sneered, the former lord finally managing to kneel upright properly so he could glare at his ‘sibling’. Moreau quailed momentarily, watery eyes flicking in your direction.

“You…you have helped him!” He accused you, the piercing whine of his voice making you wince. “What have you done? Tell me what you've done!” Those webbed hands wrapped around your throat in an iron grip, the lord dissolving into gibbering hysterics while he began to choke the life out of you.

You knew full well that Lord Salvatore Moreau could easily have snapped your neck, but he seemed to have slipped into some kind of irrational madness. The knowledge did you little good, however. The reality was that you would die all the same whether he strangled you or broke your neck. As he shook you, you wondered whether anyone in the kitchens would even notice you were gone. Your hands clenched in their binds, more of a reflex than a true attempt to free yourself, but you managed to swing one feeble kick out at Moreau's side. Naturally, the aquatic lord entirely ignored it.

“Moreau!” Heisenberg's tone sounded strangely urgent when he barked the other lord's name. “If you kill them now, you'll fuck up Alcina's plan!”

Salvatore started, his grip easing minutely. “And you'll get free.” The naked fear in his voice cut through your rattled senses. Heisenberg's response was a low, guttural snarl. “I cannot fail.” Purpose and surety seemed to be breathed anew into Moreau's hideous form, the lord hurriedly lurching away to acquire a torch from a nearby sconce.

As soon as his back was turned, Heisenberg caught your eye. The man jerked his chin to the side, indicating the direction of the door to the chamber. Run, he seemed to mouth, but between your current disorientation and his tangled facial hair you were unsure. You shook your head all the same, confused and scared by the ferocity his face took on afterwards.

Karl leaned forward, bared his teeth and snapped them at you. Run, now!

You tried to stand and the uneven pile of damp branches beneath you gave way, toppling over and half-burying you in the process. Moreau made a noise of distress, shambling back towards you with a torch in hand. “What h-have you done, oh what has happened?” He asked in dismay. “All my hard work–and the solstice-! You keep ruining everything!” The lord raged, his temper seeming to flare once more. “I cannot allow-”

Clang!

The noise echoed sharply off the walls, making Moreau jump. All you could see from your awkward vantage point was that it looked like one of the sconces on the wall had given way, dumping a torch onto the chamber’s floor. The misshapen lord huffed out angrily, throwing down the torch he'd carried onto the pile of sticks by your leg.

You frantically tried to get away from the guttering flames, the dampness of the surrounding wood your only saving grace at the moment. Moreau giggled softly to himself, obviously enjoying your panicky struggle before he sauntered off towards the newly-downed torch.

Another metallic noise rang out further down the hall, but you were so intent on escaping the smoking nest around you you didn't bother looking up to see what had made the sound.

Moreau, on the other hand, released a frustrated bellow and shambled off faster.

You finally managed to roll away from the majority of the embers, the torch dying a slow death smothered by soggy, green wood. Sticks stabbed and poked into your stomach and back but you continued, doggedly kicking free of the limbs after several fitful moments.

Karl was abruptly over you, his hunched form blocking whatever meager light the torches provided. “Still.” He breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “Be still.”

You obeyed, halting on your side. The former lord bent even further, supporting his weight by planting his fists on the floor. Something whipped past your ear and then there was a bright, vibrant pain in your right upper arm. Heisenberg cursed under his breath when you gasped out, the man’s eyes darting to your own.

Your hands were suddenly loosed of their bonds, and you did your best to refrain from groaning as pins and needles surged down from your shoulders to your fingertips. Curling into yourself, you took note of the fact that a small cut now graced your upper arm.

Karl grimaced. “I missed.” After flexing your fingers experimentally, you reached forward and dug your nails into the thick, rust-stained rope that was wrapped around his wrists. Heisenberg jerked back, obviously spooked by your speed. “Won't matter.” He muttered, but he also didn't try to pull away again.

You struggled with the knots, wiping rusty-maroon flakes off your sweaty palms over and over again in an effort to secure a better grip. Finally, you managed to weasel your index into a tight loop, coaxing it into loosening.

You felt Karl exhale hard, his breath ghosting over the top of your head. However, with your bare knees pressed to the cold marble floor, you sensed her approach before you truly heard it. “The Lady.” You whispered, horror seizing your body in that familiar vise grip.

Heisenberg fell over himself in his effort to retreat, the man again indulging in a prolonged exhale of expletives. Lady Dimitrescu's voice echoed down the hall, “--you know I don't have much time Salvatore, and you promised me you could manage this…”

“I can! I can, o-of course I can.” Moreau sounded nauseatingly frantic, wet footsteps following in the wake of Lady Dimitrescu's stately heels. “I just needed a bit more…a little b-bit more time, that's all. They are not cooperating.”

“Dear, sweet Moreau, why would they? Humans are terrified of getting their heads cut off.” Alcina's words were said kindly, but you felt like you'd been punched in the stomach.

Karl hung his head from his spot on his knees, continuing to pepper the tepid air with his whispered bouts of inventive profanity.

You turned your gaze to the hallway, a shudder running down your spine as the Lady Dimitrescu and Lord Moreau entered the chamber. Dimitrescu began clicking her tongue, seeming disappointed. “Salvatore, what is all this debris?”

“A pyre!” You couldn't believe it when the lord pulled himself up and puffed his chest out proudly. “To burn the sacrifice.”

Alcina rubbed her temples.

There was a flash of movement and Moreau sailed through the air, crashing headfirst into the floor with a dull crunch. “Well, now that that's managed.” The giant woman remarked cheerily, stalking towards you. “Afraid I don't have the luxury of time on my side, so you'll be going to your grave with questions unanswered.”

You were wrenched upright, feet momentarily leaving the floor with the force of the motion. While you were grateful to be wholly free of the prickly limbs, you knew you were now even further from safety than you had been with Lord Moreau.

“Greet my dear brother, won't you?” Lady Dimitrescu cooed in your ear, her nails digging into your shoulders like talons.

You winced, trying to muster up the ability to speak. Your mouth was so dry. “Lord Heisenberg-” You managed to say, but you were cuffed across the head by Alcina without warning, the blow crumpling you to your knees once more.

While you attempted to stand again Lady Dimitrescu chided you, her tone that of a fondly exasperated parent. “Little one, you know my dear brother was stripped of his title. He is just Heisenberg, just my silly brother.”

“I apologize, my Lady.” You breathed, bracing your aching forehead momentarily on the freezing marble flooring. “Please forgive my mistake, I had no intention of offending. I simply did not know how to address the L–how to address him.”

“You should not be addressing him at all!” Alcina snapped, her wrathful eruption making you cringe. “You were to bring him his sustenance and leave. You were not supposed to make idle conversation and dawdle with this pathetic–miserable–!”

“Shut your fucking hole!” Heisenberg shouted abruptly. You dared to sneak a glance in his direction and he was glaring at Lady Dimitrescu, his expression so decidedly full of hatred that for a moment, you were unsure which of them scared you more. “Every damn year we go through this. Just get on with it already, you colossal-”

Alcina's pointed shoe buried itself in your ribs, the towering woman kicking you aside as if you weighed nothing at all. Your stomach ended up crashing into the top of the altar and you fought for breath, vision graying at the edges while your fingers clawed for a grip on the smooth stone. Through the remaining tangle of branches you felt an ornate handle, and you clutched down on instinct as you slid back off the altar to the floor. A blade met your eyes when you furtively glanced down, the sharp edge blackened with some sort of strange patina, but you didn't exactly have time to ponder the object for the Lady was speaking once more.

“I've heard tell, Heisenberg. The kitchen maids have mentioned spotting your little lamb sneaking food.” The Lady hissed. “Sneaking it to you, to poor, poor Heisenberg.”

“No.” The former lord retorted flatly. “Whatever they did with it, it wasn't for me. Maybe they were feeding a wild animal or-”

Lady Dimitrescu's fingers wound into your hair and she pulled you up onto your knees, the agony leaving you trembling. “Not a sound from your little pet, not a sound! So brave for you.” The woman crooned, tightening her grip until your scalp began to pound. “So brave and so, so foolish. Donna told me everything, little pet.”

“You titanic cunt, I already told you they didn't do anything for me!” Karl barked.

“You're so lively, Heisenberg! Normally you can barely even open your eyes. I wonder why that is.” The Lady hummed, almost to herself.

Heisenberg replied curtly, “because your moron wound me a little tight. Honestly I can't believe you trusted that idiot with something so important. You're clearly slipping.” He leaned back, shooting Alcina a look that somehow managed to be condescending. “Gettin’ fat and lazy, are we?”

Your only warning was feeling the Lady's fingers twitch. Driven by pure survival and an overwhelming desire to live, you stabbed the blade of whatever weapon you had grabbed backwards under your arm into Alcina's leg. She screamed, her hold on you slacking for a single moment, and you seized that moment to lunge for Karl.

A terrifying lord, a ferocious fighter, The Iron Horse.

“Please-!” You begged Heisenberg, frantically ripping at the knots still securing his hands. “Please, please please–” your mouth couldn't seem to utter any other words while the former lord stared dumbly down at you, then up at the Lady. You dissolved into panicked tears, hiccuping and dropping your forehead to rest on his chest in defeat.

The ancient, blood-drenched flax abruptly parted beneath your fingers like water. Karl's chest expanded as the former lord took a deep breath.

Alcina's talons drove through your shoulder and you were flung back into the side of the altar. The last thing you could recall was your temple splitting on the sharp marble corner. You could have sworn you heard Karl yell something hoarsely, and then…nothing.

…

Eternity.

Eternity spent under someone else's thumb, eternity serving another's ambitions, eternity waiting for his promised reward.

Brave, strong, loyal Heisenberg. Even the memory of their faux mother's words made him feel ill. It had always been some sort of test, a trial to overcome, just a bit further, until the resentment and Alcina's clever little jabs had burrowed deep enough for him to do something…regrettable.

Though, only regrettable in the sense that it allowed Dimitrescu to have her way. Karl would never regret what he did to Miranda. The old witch had used him long enough, and he made her end swift. The fight with Alcina was…much less simple. Frankly, he had underestimated her and as such, Heisenberg lost spectacularly.

Thus began the second eternity in his life, one where he faded dreamily in and out of consciousness for year after year. Eat the scraps, take his licks, go back to sleep. An interminable slog of time while he did his best to maintain the barest hold on his extremely-limited sanity, the yearly sacrifice-that-did-not-know pitching his food at him in disdain and laughing as the thin gruel dripped down his chin…

Worse were the lash days, where Dimitrescu took fiendish delight in wringing him dry for her decadent (in every sense of the word) vino. There, his consciousness had no recourse but to flare awake every time the whip snapped into his flesh, an ever-constant reminder of his pride, his failure. Not so much the physical pain, that he was no stranger to, but Alcina laughing uproariously at him made him want to rip himself apart from the inside out.

Silly little brother, did you really believe me?

It was always one thing or another in this damned place. Heisenberg existed in what felt like a tight, seamless loop of time. Over and over, over and over, insanity defined.

But then the most recent failure from Alcina's cadre of housekeepers began to bring him his meals. Another year had come and gone, another sacrifice-that-did-not-know, and Karl was exhausted to his very marrow. Maybe that was why he had spoken to you.

Or maybe he was just bored, and he had to admit your timid behavior was a little funny, especially after enduring the disrespect of countless others before you. You spoke to him like he was still a title-holding lord, like he still had his ill-fated army at his disposal and was still a tangible threat. It was entertaining, if nothing else.

You have not been cruel to me. I see no reason to be cruel to you.

He hadn't exactly meant to smile, but it had happened regardless. To think, after all the terrible things he had done, after all the blood he had spilled…that there would be anyone left who could claim he hadn't been cruel to them-! It was so unbelievable that he couldn't help his sardonic grin.

If only it had ended there. If he'd had any damn brains in his head, Karl knew he would have ended it there. That he hadn't spoke volumes to his mental state. Lowering himself to this level…there had been a time in his life where he would have taken as much notice of a human in his presence as he would have the wallpaper. Now, he found himself craving the albeit limited socialization and, while his pride wanted to mourn the loss of his beloved ‘superiority’, his flickering sanity simply appreciated the reliable interaction.

And you snuck him food. Real food, real food, iron-rich venison and herbed breads, real. The green herbs of the valley in particular had always been touted as a cure-all and Heisenberg had to concede that there may have been something to that claim. He could feel the old strength returning to his body with every meal, despite the blood wards knotted yearly into the ropes of his prison.

With that strength came the boundless possibility, the ludicrous hope for freedom that he had nearly given up on. He did his best not to alert his jailers, the former lord's bent pride still stinging every time he was put through his proverbial paces by Dimitrescu. Karl soothed himself with the reminder that if this worked, if this worked, it would all be worth it. The indignity…he was no stranger to it and it would not serve him to continue to be offended by it until he was able to decisively strike back at the bitch. Then, then, she would pay–

“Please!”

Begging, pleading, screaming–why were you looking at him like that?

Karl's head was spinning, he couldn't think straight, you were tearing at the eternal ropes around his wrists and then, Dimitrescu lashed out.

Victory for my master.

It had always been someone else in charge, someone else urging him on to bloodshed and war and trial. What could be the harm, then, in serving a master who had shown him kindness, true kindness? For their terrible sin they laid bleeding beside the altar before him, Alcina's cackling laughter echoing off the high ceiling of the chamber as the weak solstice sunbeam drew closer and closer. The enormous woman tore free the knife that they had shoved gracelessly into her leg, her eyes burning with rage. It was the knife she always used for the solstice, the knife that she would…

With a start that tore through the mental haze like lightning, Karl realized he knew that blade, knew that curved edge. It was a dagger that an ill-fated assassin had attempted to end Alcina with, once upon a time. What ego, for the towering Lady to continue to use such a weapon for the binding ritual!

Through his entire imprisonment Karl had felt as though he was pulling air through wet fabric. Suddenly his chest could expand fully once more, and the lord drank greedily of the essence he had been denied for so long.

His shoulders creaked like rusty gears, joints singing in reply, blessed pain bathing him with the joyous agony of life. It lives! Victor Frankenstein cried, it breathes! And as one monster to another, Karl lurched upright and took an unsteady step towards Alcina.

“Bitch.” One word, a full sentence, cutting his faux-sibling’s chortling short. “Let's see whether you can weasel your way outta’ this one, you albino sequoia.” Heisenberg slurred, relishing the way Dimitrescu sputtered in rage while he cracked his knuckles. The ropes continued to slough off his wrists, layer after layer peeling back. He was alive again, awake again.

He was still alive.

Part Two

#karl heisenberg #lord karl heisenberg #eventual romance #fix it fic #au #resident evil #re 8 #re 8 village #resident evil village #resident evil karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg imagine #re 8 karl heisenberg #loyal mad dog trope #forgive me for not posting since january it's been a long year #enjoy!

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princessmisery666 · 1 year ago

Note

Please don't leave. Jensen Ackles and reader

Please Don't Leave

Summary: Friends to lovers to friends, that can work, right?

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff, Jensen in his thicc Soldier Boy era (that’s a warning in itself!)

W/C: 4.3k

Characters: Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki. Small Parts/Mentioned: Karl Urban, Jack Quaid, Gen Padalecki.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

Notes: For the purpose of this fic, Jensen is not and never has been married.

A/N: This drabble got way out of hand.

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch // any mistakes belong to me.

Graphics: Title card Jensen photo credit - https://twitter.com/_AlanaKing_ Soldier Boy image from Variety. Fly video belongs to me.

Master Lists: Dean Winchester // Main // Made Up Fic Titles

“Help me understand,” you implore.

The first domino to set off the chain reaction was in the form of a famous and beautiful actress, Mae Nova, sliding into Jensen’s DM’s—a very detailed offer with an accompanying photo that you saw by no fault of your own. How is irrelevant. Why is the issue. Why didn’t he delete it or immediately set her straight?

“You’re the one that wanted this, Jay,” you say when he remains silent. “You're the one who pursued me, convinced me we should try and turn the ten years of friendship into something more.”

“I know.” He sighs, pushing a hand through his longer hair. “And I don’t regret a second of the last six months we’ve been together…” he doesn’t say it; however, the ‘but’ demands attention like a flickering light.

“But you're having second thoughts?”

“No!” he denies vehemently, finally looking you in the eye. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, one of us has to!”

He shakes his head, exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, sounding like a broken record. His heart rate is running high, and his chest heaves with every breath, but his vocabulary appears to be running low.

You tsk, fighting back a scathing comment about needing a script writer to make him talk. But it wouldn’t be fair. He’s not a man who runs from his emotions. He’s just trying to make sense of it all like you are. You have to remind yourself he’s not Dean Winchester. He doesn’t look much like him anymore either; longer hair, beard growing almost wildly, no plaid in sight in the Soldier Boy wardrobe at the back of the fancy trailer.

Is that where the lines blurred? Working together for so long on Supernatural, have you both confused the other for your characters and their feelings toward the other?

“You can stop saying your sorry. I forgive you,” you say, and he turns a watery gaze your way. It almost breaks your resolve, but you realize it’s down to you to be the strong one. “I just need to understand why? Why didn’t you reply and tell her you're in a relationship? You’ve done it a hundred times before.”

“I don’t know.”

To make matters worse, Mae had landed a role on The Boys and would be working alongside Jensen.

“Jensen, you spent fifteen years of your life devoted to Supernatural, ten of those with me around. I think you were scared of the end, afraid of losing such a big part of yourself.”

“I was,” he agrees, in a whisper as if you speaking the words is the reason for his realization of it being the truth.

“Maybe us being together was a knee-jerk reaction?” you suggest, “a way to cling onto the past.” You take a deep breath, and your chest tightens as if begging yourself not to say the next part. “Maybe you need a clean break, see what the world looks like without Supernatural… without me.”

“What? No.” He looks offended but can’t hold eye contact and doesn’t offer anything further.

You can’t keep going around in circles, so you make a decision, sitting down at the small table and firing up your laptop.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, rushing to look over your shoulder, perhaps worried you’ll take it upon yourself to reply to the woman. “Searching for flights back home?” Jensen says, panic clear in his tone. Harshly he slams the laptop shut, and you look up at him. “You can’t leave.”

“Give me a reason to stay.”

“Me, us!” he yells, “we can work this out.”

You stand up and gently press your lips to his. Jensen’s hand automatically goes to the small of your back, guiding you around the chair to better press himself against you.

The kiss is natural and unhurried, but there’s too much tension in his body, and you know it’s because he feels it, too. This is your last kiss.

A little breathless, you pull back. “I don’t wanna fight, Jensen.”

“Me neither.”

“So let me be the bad guy,” you say, heart aching but trying to hold it together. “Let me walk away before the wound is too big to save our friendship.”

He grimaces as if tasting something bitter but nods once, “I’m sorry.”

It’s been a long day. All Jensen wanted to do was take a shower and crash, but Karl convinced him to go for dinner with the cast and crew.

The conversation is light, everyone enjoying their food and making small talk. It’s nice enough, but it’s incomplete because you're not there.

He wishes it was you beside him instead of Mae. The seating arrangements have no rhyme or reason. It just happened that way. But still, he almost resents that she’s the one next to him. So much has happened in the weeks since he last saw you. He wants to share it all with you, and wants to know how you are - if you’re struggling with his absence as much as he is with yours.

“Okay there, Ackles?” Jack asks, “You're a world away.”

“Yeah,” he lies, sitting up straighter and smiling. “Just thinking…”

Karl must know the look of a man missing his significant other because he asks, “About your girl?”

“Yeah,” Jensen admits, sighing heavily. He hasn't told anyone you broke up, and there’s been no speculation in the tabloids.

“Tell us about her. You never did tell us about your first date,” Jack says, “we all know you met on Supernatural, but not the story of your first date.”

Jack’s an awesome guy, sweet and kind, he doesn’t know the reminder is like a kick in the teeth, but Jensen obliges.

Jensen hurried across the lot, a coffee in each hand, the brown paper bag containing two cinnamon rolls dangling from his mouth. He was late, and Jared would give him shit for it, but it would be worth whatever Jared threw at him if it improved your morning.

Your latest Instagram post was a photo of a fly swimming in your coffee with the caption: “It was my last coffee pod. This just topped off a crappy weekend😭. #HappyMonday”. You were one hundred percent a coffee snob. You made it in a particular way using a fancy - and stupidly expensive - machine. You wouldn’t settle for the coffee on set. You’d rather go without. However, Jensen knew when you didn’t get her morning beverage, you’d be grumpy all day, and he hated to see you without a smile.

He headed for the makeup trailer, knowing that’s where you’d be. He kicked the bottom of the door gently as a way of knocking, then waited.

He didn’t expect Jared to be the one to open it. He wasn’t due in makeup for another half-hour, but his lanky frame filled the space of the open door. “Look who decided to show up,” Jared jeered playfully.

“Shut up,” Jensen mumbled around the bag, walking past him.

You were already there, looking through clothes on the rack, but stopped to smile at him. “Morning, Jay.”

“Here,” he said, handing over the coffee that was for you. “Hi, hey, morning.”

Confusion wrinkled your brow, but you took it. “Um, thanks.”

“I saw your Instagram, and I know how cranky you get without your coffee, and you said you had a shit weekend, so I wanted to try and make it better,” Jensen vomited words without thinking. “I don’t like seeing you upset, and you’ve been down a lot lately, and I just thought maybe this would help, some, a little, maybe.” Breathlessly he shrugged and prayed the floor would open up and swallow him.

Your smile beamed, and you lifted the cup to your nose, inhaling the aroma, and hummed contentedly, “Mmm. You even got my order right,” you said and stepped closer to him to place a kiss on his cheek.

“That’s cause you're always posting about it on social media,” quipped Jared.

You tutted, rolling your eyes at your co-star but kept your eyes locked on Jensen. Dropping back down from your tiptoes, you said, “Thank you for this. It means a lot that you thought of me.”

“It’s nothing,” he lied. It was everything, and as your kiss dried on his cheek, it reminded him of your evening plans. “I know you’ve got a long day ahead, especially with your date later.”

As part of a charity event, you had agreed that they auction off a date with you. The auction had been silent, so you had no idea who had hired you for the night. Though the studio had assured you they had vetted the winner, you’d asked that he and Jared be in the bar next door in case of emergency.

“Oh god,” you groaned, “don’t remind me. I wish I never agreed to that stupid silent auction.”

“Ah, don’t be such a downer,” Jared said, winking. “You never know. He might be the man of your dreams.”

Oh god, I hope not. Jensen thought. He’d already had to watch you be in a relationship with Chad, a man who neither deserved you nor treated you well. He couldn’t bear to watch you be with someone else again. He wanted to be next in line, and he would treat you as you should be, like a Queen. He just needed to work up the courage to tell you.

“I doubt it,” you sighed, and Jensen swore your eyes flicked to him and away again. “Besides, who said it’s a man who hired me?”

“C’mon, you two,” Zara, the makeup artist, said, waving them toward the door, “out! I’ve got to get this one ready.”

Amongst a chorus of goodbyes, Jared and Jensen left. “What is it with you when you’re around her?” Jared asked as soon as the trailer door was closed. “You’re a bumbling idiot, and she’s starting to notice.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she asked me what’s wrong with you. Thinks she’s done something wrong ‘cause you either avoid her or barely speak to her.”

“I know, man,” Jensen groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Ever since you put it out there that we could be more than friends, I can't stop thinking about it. I don’t want to blurt it out at the wrong time, so I try to be careful about what I say, but I just end up tripping over myself.”

Jared clapped him on the back, “You just need to fake some of that Dean Winchester confidence.”

“Maybe.”

“You better find a way to be around her ‘cause you’ve got a date with her tonight.”

“What?”

“The silent auction,” Jared explained, “I paid for the date with her for you.”

“Jared, what? No!”

“I think Gen will have an issue if I show up for a date with her, and are you really going to leave her sitting on her own?”

“No, but Jared, I can’t,” Jensen panicked, “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

“You’re an actor. Just act normal.” Jared suggested before walking off.

Seeing you through the restaurant window, Jensen wanted to hug Jared so tight to thank him he’d crack a rib. But he also wanted to punch him so damn hard in the arm it’d be limp for a week. Why had he agreed to this? Okay, he hadn’t agreed. He’d totally freaked out, drank two beers, took three shots of whiskey, and then forced himself into the waiting car.

He was going to mess this up. He knew it. He was a fumbling, mumbling idiot around you, and dread settled firmly in his gut as he watched you scanning the menu. He regretted the whiskey and allowing Jared to talk him into this.

He swore he was having an out-of-body experience as his feet took him closer to you. You glanced up when he got to the side of the table, and your face glowed with a smile. “Come to check in on me?” you asked, rising and pulling him into a hug.

He held you a little tighter than he usually would, savoring the moment before releasing you and taking a seat. “Not exactly checking up on you,” he said, “this wasn’t my idea, but Jared brought you for me.”

“What?”

“The silent auction, Jared was the highest bidder.”

Confusion took over your features. “Why would he do that? I mean not that I’m not grateful, I’d much rather be here with you, but I don’t understand.”

He realized it was now or never. “‘Cause he knows how I feel about you,” he admits, holding his breath for a reaction.

“Care to elaborate?” you ask after a long silence.

“The truth is, I like you... a lot.”

“I like you too.”

“No,” he shook his head, “you don’t get it. I cherish our friendship and don’t want to lose it, but it's more than that. My feelings for you go beyond friendship, and I want to see if we could be more.”

“I was so nervous,” Jensen chuckles. “I felt like I was auditioning for the rest of my life.” he contemplates it for a moment, “maybe I was.”

“Well then, it’s good she reciprocated,” Karl laughs.

“It took her a minute,” Jensen remembers, “but yeah, she came around.”

Your phone rings as you slot the key into your door’s lock. You’re juggling coffee, a pile of scripts to read, dry cleaning, and a bag of groceries. You have no hope of answering without dropping everything, so leave it to ring. You assume it’s Jared checking in on you after seeing the photos on TMZ. Jensen and Mae were pictured at a restaurant in Ontario.

The phone stops as you enter the kitchen and set everything down on the countertop.

Gen had already checked in to make sure you were okay, and you’d been anticipating a call from Jared to yet again invite you out to the set of Walker to meet one of the crew he was insistent you’d “hit it off with.” You’d politely declined, having already been on a date that had been pleasant and ended with a goodnight kiss, but you’d told the Padalecki’s it had left you feeling guilty as if you were cheating on Jensen. You needed time to let that feeling pass and allow the wound to heal completely.

You set about emptying the bags of groceries, and your phone rings again. You shuffle the contents of your bag, looking for the device, sure that it will cut off to voicemail before you find it.

“Hello,” you answer, pressing it to your ear.

“Hey.”

Jensen’s voice freezes you to the floor, and you hold your breath. It’s been more than a month since you left him in his trailer, and you’ve only exchanged a few text messages. Why is he calling now? Does he want to be the one to confirm that he and Mae are together?

He says your name when your silence stretches.

“Um, yeah. Hey, hi,” you say, clearing your throat to rid yourself of the shock.

“You sound out of breath,” he notes, “is this a bad time?”

“No, no, I just wasn’t expecting it to be you,” you explain, “caught me off guard.”

“Who were you expecting?” he asks, sounding accusatory.

“Jared,” you sneer, unable to stop the ire you feel.

“Sorry,” he says, and the apology tightens your jaw with the frustration it evokes. “I should have called sooner.”

“I haven’t called you either.”

No one is to blame for the lack of communication. You both needed some space, so you were both right not to call.

Neither of you speaks for a moment, and you debate whether to tell him you're busy so you can end the call and be done with the awkwardness. But he obviously put his awkwardness aside to call, so you might as well rip the stitches out and reopen the wound if that's what this is about.

“Why are you calling now?”

“I need you to know that me and Mae aren’t together,” he says, firm and direct.

You try to interrupt, “Jensen, it’s fine.” but he determinedly continues.

“The picture they posted was cropped,” he explains. “The whole cast and some of the crew were there. The photo made it look like it was just the two of us, and that’s not the truth.”

“Even if it was, it’s okay.” It’s not okay, and from the moment you saw it, you’ve felt nauseous. Still, you assure him, “You’re free to do what you want. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

He sighs, and you can hear the scowl in his tone, “It’s important to me that you know.”

You think it’s sweet that he’s taking the time to explain himself, even if it’s not what you expected. But Mae was never the problem. The situation she presented only shone a light into the crack that you had both been ignoring. Yet the information that Jensen has shared is a welcomed relief in the wake of the storm, but it’s just the eye. More questions are coming, questions that will likely only cause more hurt and confusion.

“Why?” you ask, “why do you want me to know?”

“Because I wanted it to be you next to me…” he pauses.

You're not sure if he wants you to say something or read between the lines, but you can’t let yourself trust the spark of hope that jabs your heart like a pinprick.

“Even if we’re just friends,” he adds.

That pinprick pierces the thin shell you’d managed to build, and it feels like a thousand jagged pieces of glass lacerate your heart, and you chew your top lip to stop the emotion from escaping in a sob.

There’s a loud bang on his end of the line, and someone calls out, “We’re ready on set, Mr. Ackles.”

“I gotta go,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, and immaturely add, “Bye, buddy,” before hanging up.

The party has been a monumental success. You helped Gen, along with a professional party planner, to pull it off.

“So you really had no idea?” You ask Jared once everyone seems to have greeted him and wished him a very happy fortieth birthday. Technically it's not his birthday for another four hours, but the surprise party had needed that early element to make sure it went off without a hitch.

“None,” Jared says, smiling. “I was fully prepared to fly home tomorrow to spend my birthday with Gen and the kids. I was looking forward to it, actually. I didn’t want a big fuss,” he chuckles, looking around the room, “but I’m glad you helped Gen make a fuss. It’s nice to see all the old faces.”

“Not all of them,” you note sourly, commenting on Jensen’s absence. “He wanted to be here, but you know how tight filming schedules can be.”

“I know,” he nods with a tight, sad smile. “It would have been good to see him. For me, at least.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s my birthday. I’m allowed,” he teases.

“It would have been nice to see him,” you agree before Jared can start in on the lecture. “I think. I don’t know. It’s weird and painful, and maybe I'm better off not seeing him until it’s not weird and painful.”

He laughs, pulling you into a hug. “Sounds like you have it all under control.”

“Absolutely.”

You mingle with old friends from Supernatural and new friends from the Walker set. The crew member, a camera operator named Vince, is as cute as Jared promised him to be, and you find yourself tucked in a corner talking with him as the night continues.

You hear the cheerful reunion before you see it. People applaud and shout greetings as Jensen crosses the room and embraces Jared in a tight hug. They hug for a long time, whispered words exchanged between brothers, and you see Jared’s eyes tear up. His night is complete now that Jensen is here.

A few people greet Jensen with hugs and shakes of his hand, but his eyes never seem to focus on them. He distractedly looks around them and seems disappointed when he sees the next person waiting to greet him.

You mostly manage to keep your focus on Vince, but you can see Jensen in your peripheral. You don’t react, but you notice when he finds you. He stares for a long moment, maybe hoping you’ll feel his eyes on you and look at him, but you don’t, and he doesn’t approach.

You're doing nothing wrong, but an uneasiness sneaks up on you. It’s not that you feel like you're somehow betraying Jensen. It’s that you're betraying yourself by denying how you feel. It wouldn’t be fair to start anything with anyone new right now. They’d be a rebound.

Vince seems to notice your focus has shifted and politely parts ways with you.

You spy Jensen across the room, catching up with Brianna, and head for the bar, needing something more potent than wine to make it through the rest of the night.

If possible, Jensen seems to have grown broader, arm muscles bulky beneath the material of his shirt, and you're definitely a fan of the Soldier Boy look. He looks good with a now-trimmed beard and long hair. The sight sends an ache of loneliness through your chest, remembering how it felt to be wrapped in those arms.

A shot turns into two, and when the bartender steps away to refill your wine glass, you feel the air next to you shift. You don’t have to turn to see who it is, the cologne gives him away, and as it arrests your senses, he nudges his shoulder into yours. The familiar heat of his body makes your chest tighten. You so desperately want to turn and embrace him, but you know your fragile emotions would crumble under the weight.

“Whiskey, neat,” he tells the bartender, his voice deep and gruff. He turns his body towards you, one arm resting on the bar, and you sip your drink, silently wishing it was hard liquor again instead of wine.

“Hey,” he says when you don’t look at him.

“Hi,” you respond blandly.

“How are you? You look good.”

“So do you. Really. You look incredible,” you say, without actually looking him in the eyes.

“I hate having to do the diet and exercise thing, though,” he chuckles, “it was so much easier when all I had to do was wear flannel.”

You laugh, but it's bittersweet because everything was easier when he was wearing flannel. “How’s it all going? Stepping into the shoes of a new character?”

“Daunting, but fun.” Jensen talks, and you do all you can to listen and engage but can’t bring yourself to fully meet his eyes.

He says your name so delicately it feels like a caress that sends a shiver through you. You close your eyes and know what he’s asking before he pleads, “Please look at me.”

His eyes have always been mesmerizing, and you know if you gaze into them, the spell will be cast, and there will be no escaping him, even when he’s miles away again. He waits for a beat, but your eyes remain firmly shut, and he closes the space between you, demanding attention.

His exhale wafts through your hair. It’s too close because it's not close enough, and you feel the heartache rising in your chest.

“It was good to see you, Jensen,” you flash a smile in his general direction, picking up your glass.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing your wrist as you turn your back to him. “Don’t leave.”

You freeze in place and turn to look at his hand cuffing your wrist. Slowly you raise your gaze from his hold to his face, preparing yourself for the enchantment of his eyes, but his sad expression is downcast. His chest heaves with a deep breath before he finally looks at you, despondence turning to tentative hope.

“I know I should have said it back then, but I’m saying it now.” His voice is nearly a whisper beneath the muted conversation and ambient music, but it’s clear as a bell to your ears. “Please, don’t leave.”

You turn back to face him, and he takes two deep breaths before he finds the words.

“The last couple of months, I’ve been miserable without you.” He admits, “I’ve had to fight myself to eat, to work out, to do anything that didn’t involve staying in my trailer with a bottle of whiskey. I know that things are weird, but I realized my hesitance had nothing to do with the ending of Supernatural. Yes, I was scared. But I was scared of how easy it was with you, how much I cared for you, how quickly I realized that I am head over heels in love with you.”

You choke out his name as tears well in your eyes, and he steps forward to swipe the first droplet from your cheek.

“I was ready to tell you I’m in love with you, and you were booking flights home,” the heartache of the reminder dims the light behind his eyes, and he drops his gaze to battle whatever emotion he’s feeling. “That scared me more than anything. I didn’t want to say it in the heat of the moment or on the phone, and I was terrified you didn’t feel the same. It doesn’t matter if you don’t. I need you to know that I love you.”

You don’t have words, unexpectedly wishing you had a script so you don’t say something stupid. Then, just as surprisingly, you realize you don’t need words. You take a half step forward and kiss him. Jensen responds immediately, a hand caressing your cheek and drawing you closer as the other slips around your waist to tug you flush against him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, and he groans into your mouth. His kiss gets you drunker than any alcohol ever could, and after a moment that could have been a minute or an hour, you feel lightheaded.

Jensen chases you as you pull back, placing swift kisses on your lips and pressing his head against yours.

“Damn, I’ve missed you,” you sigh.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” he says, “I’m never letting you leave me again.”

Tag List Info

Tagging Dean Winchester and Supernatural List. Sorry if you don't like RPF.

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Master Lists: Dean Winchester // Main

#Jensen Ackles #Solider Boy #RPF #RPF FanFic #RPF fanfiction #Jensen Ackles fic #Jensen Ackles RPF fanfic #fluff #angst #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #Jensen Ackles x Reader #Jensen Ackles x You

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