Headless, Sleepy Hollow (Ichabod/The Horseman) Title: Headless Author:melodywilde Rating: T Warnings: Masturbation Word count: 1,237 Summary: Perhaps, after their first encounter, the Horseman didn’t ride away from Ichabod quite as quickly as we thought from the movie... A/N: Ichabod and the Horseman don’t belong to me...although, since the original story is in the public domain, maybe they do, just a little bit. Thanks to evilmissbecky for the beta.
Headless by Melody Wilde
Just before Daredevil entered the woods, carrying his master and their latest prize away, the Horseman suddenly tugged on the reins and drew him to a stop. The dark horse tossed his head and stamped a forefoot impatiently—we should go home now—but, at the Horseman’s urging, he turned and trotted back the way they had come.
There was a bond between horse and rider which allowed them to communicate without words. It had existed in life and grown more powerful in death. Daredevil could sense the unknown emotions coming from the Horseman as he advanced, then stopped beside the prone figure.
He is not one of them.
The message passed from man to beast, and Daredevil shook his head again in agreement.
They...the people of Sleepy Hollow... They are old and fat and foolish. Even the young ones are hard-faced and foolish. But this one... This one is...beautiful.
Sheathing his sword, the Horseman slid from Daredevil’s back to stand over the boy. Pale, dark-haired, fine featured. There had been a flash of wide dark eyes, frightened eyes, as they had passed. He is very much like a boy I knew a long time ago, in another place, in another...in life.
The Horseman went to one knee beside Ichabod Crane’s body and reached out a gloved hand to stroke his cheek. It is curious, how like Anton he is. I wonder... I wonder.
* * *
Purple-blue dusk. Arguing with the magistrate, thinking him a fool. Sheep running, bleating loudly in terror. Lightning breaking the sky. A deep and unreasoning sense of dread...of something not...right...
Ichabod groaned and let his head roll from side to side, trying to stop the images, to make sense of them. There had been a horseman, riding by at such a speed that his mere passing had flung Ichabod to the ground. Flash of a sword. The magistrate’s head, separated from its body, bouncing across the ground and stopping close. Too close. The horse rearing with a terrible beauty, revealing...
The rider was headless. He had no head. He was headless.
He barely remembered what had happened after that appalling revelation. They were in motion, riding back toward him, and the sword was flashing down again and the rider...oh god...the rider...
He shuddered and opened his eyes.
The Horseman was kneeling beside him, a hand resting lightly on his chest, staring... No, not staring because there are no eyes, no face, no head.
He was too frightened even to scream or faint.
For a moment that seemed like an eternity, neither moved. Then the Horseman’s hand moved, sliding up his chest, fingertips brushing his chin, turning his face from side to side, then on to stroke his cheek. Gently. So gently.
Ichabod found he could breathe again. Perhaps he isn’t going to kill me, as I’d feared. Perhaps I can reason with him.
“I... G...g...good evening, sir.” His voice was high, strangled. He swallowed. “My name is Ichabod Crane. Constable Ichabod Crane. From New York City. And you, I take it are the Hessian, better known as the Head—”
Two fingertips pressed against his lips, as if to silence him. He nodded, hoping the Horseman could sense his compliance.
Nearby, the huge black horse snorted and pawed the ground. The Horseman looked...no, no, not looked, because he has no head...turned his upper body toward the horse as if sending a message. The horse quieted and the rider returned his attention to Ichabod.
“If your steed is anxious...if you need to be going on...you needn’t stay here on my account. I’m fine. Just a little—oh god, what are you doing?”
The gloved hands were moving with incredible speed and dexterity, pulling loose his cravat, undoing the buttons of waistcoat and shirt, pushing the cloth aside to bare his chest.
“Oh god.”
Fingertips on his lips—slightly more insistent this time—silenced him again. He lay motionless, trying not to breathe too deeply, as the Horseman placed a hand on his chest and began to move it in lazy circles, touch feather-light, barely skimming the flesh. Slowly, then faster, pausing at one nipple, the heel of the hand pressing against it, then going to the other to repeat the motion, back and forth, back and forth...
Without warning, the movement changed. The hand shot down, across his stomach, to the front of his trousers, pressing inward, groping, seeking that most private part of his body. Ichabod cried out in shock and tried to scramble away. Without effort, the Horseman held him in place.
“Oh god, please...”
The Horseman was undoing the buttons of his fly. With one swift movement, he lifted Ichabod’s legs and dragged the trousers down to his knees.
“Sir, please, I must insist that you...that you... Ah!”
The Horseman’s fingers were exploring him blindly—of course blindly because he can’t see he has no head—curling about his member, lifting it, cupping the sac beneath, then slipping even further back, to a place that made Ichabod gasp and arch and writhe with shame.
And then he lacked even the breath to whimper as one of the fingers entered his body. Pain...pain...and then, suddenly, the pain was gone in a flash of sensation as the invading finger found a spot...ohgodohgodohgod...a spot inside him that made him arch and writhe with an altogether different reaction. His manhood swelled and sprang erect to slap against his belly. And the Horseman wrapped his other hand around the offending member, gloved palm moving up and down the shaft, fingers flexing, tightening, loosening, teasing.
He tried to struggle. He wanted to struggle. This could not be happening. No one...no one had ever touched...that...not even he himself. His father had preached that to do so was an evil abomination. This was wrong...wrong in so many ways...
Wrong...but it feels so...so... So good.
And then the finger inside of him stroked him just so as the hand around him grasped him just so, and he was lost. His body spasmed, shaking with the force of his completion, his seed spilling across his stomach and the Horseman’s hand. It went on forever, and it was over far, far too soon.
The Horseman released him and leaned back. A flash of lightning illuminated the headless, he’s headless figure beside him. There was only one thing to do. He thought he felt another touch, light as a finger-kiss, on his cheek as he fainted.
When he came to his senses again, he was alone, sprawled half naked in the wet grass in a tangle of limbs and loosened clothing. There was no sign of the Horseman or his great black horse, only Gunpowder grazing peacefully a short distance from him.
A dream. It was all a dream. There was no headless horseman and he...no one...it did not happen. I must believe that.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow...and found himself staring at the decapitated body of the magistrate.
Headless. He’s headless. They’re both headless.
He gave one hysterical giggle, then rolled to the side and vomited.
The world spun, tilted, settled again. He found he was able to think once more. I must...I have to...no one must know what happened...what he did to me...what I allowed him to do. No one must ever know.
He was light-headed and trembling uncontrollably, but somehow Ichabod Crane managed to clean himself and restore his clothing before he allowed himself to faint again.