FIC: Willing Victim (9/9)
ok.. at long last... here it is. the very last chapter of Willing Victim. Of course, I've already started on the next story in the series, so I hope you aren't tired of Siren yet. anyway, enough crap... without further delay----
Title: Willing Victim (9/9)
Author: Cleo
Rating: NC17-- sex, violence
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me. Well... except Darcy/Siren.. she's mine.
Chapter 9
Once Darcy gave in to the visions, it was much easier to get her back upstairs. She screamed and struggled against him until she was out of breath. Her lips and tongue dripped blood as she bit them hard in the shudders of her thrashing. He held her tightly through the worst of it, almost feeling sorry for all of her suffering. He really hadn’t meant for it to be this way. He’d planned to give her carefully measured doses of the toxin along with the tranquilizer and mood stabilizer he’d been giving her for weeks. Thus, slowly driving her chemically mad and turning her into the perfect mate and partner in crime. It wasn’t that he hadn’t planned to tell her his little secret, but he’d hoped to wait until she was in a… better state- of- mind. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure what such a high dose would do to her. He supposed that she’d either go completely bonkers, or she’d die. Maybe become a certifiable idiot. He hoped that he hadn’t destroyed his greatest creation.
He picked her up, struggling with her limp frame and tossing her over his shoulder. “She hasn’t eaten in weeks, you’d think she’d be lighter.” He fumbled with the keyring, pushing a key into the elevator control panel and blowing a stray hair out of his face. He knew he’d better hurry, once she was awake, there was no telling how violent she might become. The elevator crept creakily up the shaft to his quarters on the top floor. Luckily he’d left the door open in his angry haste to get to her before she found something she shouldn’t. He might have just closed and locked it for all the good it did. “I must have some kind of feeling for you, Darcy… I’d kill anyone else for putting me out like this.” He stumbled over his shoe that peeked out from under the corner of the bed, spilling Darcy and himself into it. She stirred a little and groaned slightly, her eyes fluttering open. They focused briefly on him and she tensed, crawling back slightly. He pretended not to notice as he pulled the bloodied robe from around her shoulders and laid her down on top of the covers. “Damnit… this blood will never come out of my sheets…”
Once she lay there naked, he left her to find implements to fix up the wounds he’d inflicted. He stepped into the stark white marble of the bathroom and began going through the medicine cabinet. He could tell that she’d been snooping in here too, as a few of the bottles of cold medicine and peroxide were turned just slightly. He always made sure that they were facing outward. It was a little obsessive-compulsion he had. He took out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and package of cotton balls, along with bandages and medical tape. Opening another small drawer, he took out a syringe, already filled with morphine, and a handy little sewing kit. He was almost certain that the gash in her forehead would need stitches. There was a certain satisfaction, he supposed, in using his medical expertise.
Jonathan sat beside her on the bed and touched her forehead, bloody with beads of sweat dripping into her hair. He narrowed his eyes and took a lock of her hair between his fingers. Even in the dark he could tell that her hair was starting to go completely white. He chuckled softly, “I never knew that would actually happen.” He took the bottle of alcohol and the cotton balls and began cleaning up the bloody slashes over her eyes. Though she was asleep, she flinched as the alcohol burned in the open wound. He flinched too, knowing that she was in pain. He actually felt bad that he had been her tormentor and abuser tonight. If only she hadn’t been so… curious. It was true, he did love her… maybe not for traditional reasons, but he did.
He turned to set the alcohol down and pick up the sewing kit. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He heard the voices, low and beckoning, in the back of his mind and he squinted against them. He opened up the nightstand drawer and pulled his glasses out. He hadn’t worn them in so long that they made his eyes hurt at first. But he thought that it would be wise to use them for such delicate work as stitching a wound. Taking the syringe of morphine, he pulled the cap off with his teeth as he made a fist and pumped his arm back and forth until a purply vein popped up. He exhaled, smiling in relief as he stabbed the needle into his arm, pushing a few cc’s of the drug into his vein. Just a little would make him steady-- the rest was for Darcy when she woke up.
When he turned back to her, he could see that Darcy had opened her eyes and was staring up at him. Her blue eyes fluttered in the dim light of extremely early morning. She cried silently and watery blood seemed to drip from the corners of her eyes. Either the force of his fist or the force of her crying and screaming through the hallucinations had caused some of the blood vessels in her eyes to burst, making them appear to bleed. He dabbed at the corners of her eyes with his thumb, stroking her cheekbone tenderly. “Darcy… can you hear me?” She nodded. “Good. Don’t try to talk. Do you remember what happened?”
She coughed, trying to rasp out the words, but a strangled “Scarecrow,” was all that would come.
He smiled and put his finger against her lips. “Sssshhh… this scarecrow should hold no fear for you, love.” He picked up the syringe and held it up to the light, thumping it a few times, clearing the air bubbles. “I’m afraid that the stitches will hurt a little,” he paused, seeing her eyes widen with renewed terror. “But don’t worry… this will take the pain away.” She watched him tap on the inside of her arm and groaned slightly at feeling the pinprick. She wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t form in her brain. She couldn’t concentrate long enough to complete a thought. The morphine made her feel warm all over and she relaxed, not really caring what happened to her at this point. She was so exhausted. Random memories of her encounter with the Scarecrow flashed behind her eyelids, but she was too tired to be afraid. The rational part of her brain understood and made the connection with Jonathan, but she couldn’t help but feel that the rational part of her brain was retreating quickly into the furrows of her mind. And she wasn’t sure if it would ever return. Or if she even cared.
Her eyes felt burned and bruised. She wanted to close them, but she watched the doctor with morbid fascination. The creases of anger were gone from his face and his icy stare was once again calm-- he even wore an almost warm expression as he leaned over her, repairing the crude tears in her skin. Slowly the shadows crept over his skin, hollowing his cheekbones and distorting his appearance. She closed her eyes and tried to turn away from him before the visions became horrific again, but the needle and thread he used to stitch her up pulled at her skin and a strangled cry of pain escaped her throat. “You have to hold still, Darcy,” he whispered, gently turning her face back to him. She glanced at him sideways, shrinking back against the bed. “Just close your eyes.” Like an undertaker, he pressed his palm over her eyes, closed the lids and she slept.
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Darcy sat straight up, gasping awake in the darkness. She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus on something, anything. The sweat on her brow and shortness of breath told her that she’d been having a nightmare, but the details of which were hazy. Something about running-- being both the hunter and the hunted. She looked to either side, reaching out and touching the cold sheets beside her. The good doctor was gone, but she wasn’t in her own apartment. She listened in the room around her for any sounds that he was still here. She heard nothing but saw that the clothes he’d been wearing were folded neatly over the footboard of the bed.
Darcy threw her feet over the side of the bed and slid to the floor. Looking down, she realized that she was completely naked. Going to the closet, she threw it open and began rifling through his clothes furiously. She laughed, ripping a crisp white dress shirt off the hanger and throwing it to the floor. She was overwhelmed with the urge to mess up the perfectly organized order of his entire fucking life. She would pull something out, examine it briefly then toss it over her shoulder. In the back of the closet she found a pair of blue jeans that appeared to never have been worn. She smiled and threw them across the bed. Rushing into the bathroom, she opened every drawer and searched furiously, throwing things down as they obstructed her goal. Finally finding a dispenser of razorblades in the medicine cabinet, she grinned and slammed the mirrored cabinet door hard enough to shatter the glass.
A clap of thunder rattled the apartment and lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the room as she made her way back to the bed, casually flipping the razorblade from one finger to the next. She bit her lip and stood in front of the bed, slashing the razorblade down over and over, slashing the denim fabric of the jeans then pulling at the holes and fraying them. She barely noticed as the blade slashed deep, shredding the sheets beneath the clothing. When she was satisfied with the ragged state of the pants, she pulled them over her hips. They fit tightly and fell just below her pelvic bone. Going to her bag, she pulled everything out until she found the corset she’d worn onstage that night. With much effort she laced it and pulled it around her body, wincing slightly as the boning scraped over her fresh bruises. She stood in front of the mirror opposite the bed and examined her face. Her eyes had dark bruising around the outer rim. A puddle of red had collected around the retina of one eye. Her hair was strangely light and unrecognizable in the darkness. It stood in unkempt knotty spikes around her face, but she didn’t bother to fix it. She spotted a small squarish object on the dresser and picked it up. With a flick of her thumb, the top opened and the flame startled her. Smiling, an absurd idea crept into the recesses of her mind. She heard something moving around in the living room and dropped to her knees, pocketing the lighter. She couldn’t let him see her, he’d think she was escaping. He would try to stop her. But she had every intention of returning. Grabbing her black boots from under the bed, she opened the window carefully, ducking out and starting the long climb down the fire escape.
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By the time Darcy pulled up in front of her townhouse, the rain had nearly stopped, leaving behind an eerie mist and the low rumbling of leftover thunder. Looking around to be sure she was alone, she stumbled out of the car and ran up to the front door. “Fuck,” she whispered, realizing that she’d left her keys at Jonathan’s. She searched the darkness for an idea and found it in the flowerpot beside the steps. Dead shamrocks littered the pot, not worth saving. She hoisted the heavy terra cotta pot through the windowed door. She shoved her hand through the hole, smiling as the glass shards cut into her hand. She opened the door and went inside.
Everything looked so foreign, like she was breaking into a house of someone she’d never met before. She saw her face smiling from pictures that lined the walls and bookshelves, but couldn’t seem to identify with that person anymore. And Erik? A blurry dream, barely worth remembering. As she walked past their pictures, she smashed them with her bloodied fist, leaving a scarlet spiderweb, making her way up to her bedroom. She pulled a bag out of the closet and started pulling a few clothes off hangers and tossing them in. Just a few things that wouldn’t be missed. She couldn’t leave any clues as to what she was up to. Getting rid of one’s life was not the easiest of tasks.
She went into the bathroom and caught sight of herself in the mirror. This was the first time she’d seen her hair in the light and her jaw dropped in horror. It was so blindingly white that it almost hurt her eyes to look at it in the neon starkness of the bathroom light. She touched it curiously at first, as if it wasn’t really hers, then pushed her hands through it roughly, over and over, a single tear streaking down her face. “What have you done to me, lover?” Looking down, she saw a pair of silver scissors on the counter and took them up, haphazardly chopping her hair into a messy pixie that stood out crazily in all directions. After several minutes, she dropped them and looked at herself and smiled, satisfied with her transformation.
She walked into the other room and tossed her bag out the window. No one could see her leave with it. Picking up the bottle of gin she’d tried to drink weeks earlier, she began pouring it all over everything, walking through the house, dribbling it everywhere until it was empty. As she reached the downstairs, she opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of cheap champagne that Mya had brought over after they’d landed the gig at The Oubliette. She popped the top easily and ripped a bit of a curtain, shoving the fabric down into the bottle, turning it up slightly, letting the alcohol soak into it. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, lighting the champagne bottle and watching it with fascination as it ignited suddenly. Blowing a kiss to her old life, she tossed it against the mirror and watched it explode in flames as it shattered. She watched it burn for a while before leaping through the window and sliding down the waterspout to the street.
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It was near daybreak when Darcy climbed back up the fire escape on the side of Arkham Asylum. The side effects of the morphine had made her very tired, very quickly. But the adrenaline rush of burning her old life had been so exhilarating. She sat in the park across the street, watching the small, decrepit townhouse burn to the ground. By the time the police and fire department got there, the house was little more than a skeletal pile of embers. She had watched as Mya drove up, talking tearfully to the cop that said she should assume that Darcy Sylvan had died in the blaze. Shatzi and Dax had shown up, comforting Mya and finally pulling the hysterically sobbing girl into a car and driving her home. Once she was sure that it was done, she’d left quietly, keeping to the shadows. She was breathing hard as she made it up the last flight of metal steps and began crawling through the bedroom window. “Well look who’s back.” Jonathan’s cool, smooth voice oozed over her as she threw her bag down. He sat in a chair in the corner, wearing only a pair of jeans sitting low on his hips, unzipped slightly, the glowing end of a cigarette his only illumination.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” she replied casually, avoiding his eyes.
“I just picked it up. Of course… it was hard lighting the cigarette… without a lighter.” He looked at her coldly, holding her gaze until she pulled the zippo from her pocket, throwing it forcefully across the room at him. He caught it easily in one fist. “I heard the sirens from over here. You could stand to be a little less melodramatic.”
“What are you talking about? I just went for a walk.”
“Considering you couldn’t even raise your head mere hours ago---”
“Thanks to whom?” She turned and returned his icy stare. “And I love these bruises. They really bring out my eyes.” Walking over to him, she took the cigarette poised between his fingertips and took a long drag, sinking to her knees beside him.
He smirked, trying to hide the relief at seeing her coherent and awake. “You aren’t the easiest person to convince.”
“Oh… convincing me… is that what you were doing? Well that’s a relief… I just thought you were a fucking psychotic.” She inhaled the smoke deeply, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly. “But I guess it’s the fucking part that’s really important.”
“So I take it you’re forgiving me? It‘s only fair after you wrecked my apartment…” He regarded her tattered-chic outfit, “… and my clothes…”
“No. Not really. But hate is so much like love, I can hardly tell the difference anymore. Besides…” She plucked the cigarette from her lips and smiled up at him as she pressed it out against an exposed bit of her forearm, hissing at the pain--- smiling even as the tear fell from her eye. “You might be crazy as hell… but I guess that makes two of us…” Sitting up on her knees, she stretched up to flick her tongue over his lips, “Scarecrow.” She sat back, giggling girlishly and taunting playfully. “Scarecrow… scarecrow…” she chanted over and over.
He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her roughly, “Stop saying that! Don’t ever taunt me!”
“Ooohhh…” she laughed, feigning a fearful groan. “A little sensitive are we?” She laughed and rubbed her nose against his. “But that’s what you are… the good doctor’s just a façade…” She brushed her lips over his, “A mask…” She took his bottom lip between her teeth, biting down gently and suckling it into her mouth, tasting the bitter tobacco that lingered there. “But I’m not afraid anymore… I’ll have a mask too.” He looked indifferent when she kissed the corner of his jawline then burrowed into the hollow of his throat, tasting the salty sweetness of his skin. “Mmmm… I can feel your blood pounding through the veins… just surging beneath your skin…”She purrred against his jugular, then sinking her teeth into it, holding on until she felt him groan slightly.
He laughed, pushing her away roughly, making her sit down hard on the floor beneath him, “Crazy bitch…”
“Not so much as you, baby…” She sat up on her knees again, lying against him, pressing her cheek against his stomach. “It was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Making me a crazy bitch… an experiment gone awry.”
“It’s true…” he whispered, running his fingers through the newly shorn crop of white hair on her head. “I’m going to use you…” Pointing a single fingertip under her chin, he tipped her face up to look at him, “but you can use me too.”
She smiled wickedly and bent down, taking the thick denim of his pants between her teeth and pulling back until they ripped open completely. “Lover, you have no idea.” Before he could comment or protest, she had snaked her tiny hand into the opening, gripping his cock tightly. The sensation was so sudden that he gasped audibly. She smiled and lowered her head, kissing the tip of his sex teasingly then swirling her tongue around it. He watched her with a clinical interest, almost detached from the sensation felt by his body, until she suddenly devoured him completely, taking the whole of his cock into her mouth. When she pulled back, she used her teeth to scrape along the length until he was growling with pleasure and pain.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Darcy,” he rasped, taking her hair in his fist and pulling her head back from him savagely.
She laughed evilly and her eyes sparkled with danger. “No… not Darcy… I killed Darcy.” She giggled girlishly in a way that made Jonathan’s blood run icy cold. “She’s dead… along with that weakling boyfriend of hers.” She sat up, wrapping her arms around his waist and arching up to his mouth, seemingly begging for his kiss. “And I can be everything you want me to be.” This time she pressed her mouth against his forcefully, shoving her tongue between his lips, searching his mouth and taking his breath, then biting his lip as she pulled away. “But first… you have to catch me.” She laughed maniacally and flipped backwards over the bed and perched in the windowsill. “Well come get me then.” She smirked and ducked out the window. He only hesitated a moment, cursing her as he readjusted his clothes, before darting out after her.
Crane could hear her laughing as he took the fire-escape stairs two at a time. He watched, smiling with awestruck admiration, as she somersaulted from one landing to the next, never missing a beat or sacrificing sure footing. “Jack be nimble…” she screamed, her laughter echoing through the darkened alley. “Jack better be quicker than that!” He saw her hit the sidewalk running and grinned. Stepping down to the last landing, he kicked the ladder, letting it fall down quickly and throw him to the sidewalk below. He landed on his feet, wobbly, but still standing, and took off after her.
He could see her way ahead of him, running and constantly looking back, teasing him to chase her. The streets in the Narrows were deserted in the dark, a little gift from the Gotham City Police. No one out between 10 pm and 6 am. The darkened streets opened up before them and for an instant both felt completely free. Jonathan had never felt free. In grade school, the incessant torture of his peers and his almost completely co-dependent mother had kept him locked up behind books and hollow dreams. In college, he was chained to his own curiosity and obsessions. As an adult, he had been bound by the conventions of how society thought he should be. But since shaking off what was left of Jonathan Crane last summer… Finding a mask was the single-most liberating thing he’d ever done. Every twisted, dark, shameful thought that he’d ever had was suddenly not so bad. He was free to feel and act however he chose with little chance of backlash. Oscar Wilde once said, “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.” Truer words were never spoken. And now that he had that mask, nothing would stop him from becoming what he truly was: The Scarecrow. Everyone who had ever hurt him would finally get what was coming to them. Perhaps he could send The Batman a little thank you note before he killed him.
Darcy could hear him gaining on her. His feet pounding the pavement ever faster. She was leading him to the site of her burned out townhouse. She wanted him to see what she had done for him. Only when they stood in the blackened ash would she let him catch her. And then they would become one-- a powerful force of vengeance and chaos to bring Gotham City to its knees. Fear and control. Master and slave. Darcy had decided, somewhere in the dark place to which he’d taken her tonight, to give in. To become a whore of darkness and revenge. She would never hurt or sob weak, impotent tears ever again. He had shown her the power that she had kept locked away, deep within. “Come and get me, Scarecrow!” she shouted over her shoulder, scaling a tree and hiding between the branches. “I have a surprise for you!”
When he heard her voice, calling out in the empty darkness, he stopped, breathing heavily. Though the night was cold and breezy, his hair was soaking with perspiration and twisted in odd directions. He pushed his hands through his hair nervously. Darcy smiled, having realized that this was a gesture that he made incessantly. “Where are you, little Siren?” he called. “Come out, come out…” He could hear her laughing at him from somewhere above and it infuriated him. “Come out… or when I find you… I’ll wring your perfect little neck.”
She jumped down from the tree in front of him, making him stumble backwards a little. “D’you promise?” She giggled girlishly and took a swing at him, the heel of her palm connecting with his cheekbone, but to little effect. He blocked her easily with an almost casual gesture and returned her punch, his knuckle crashing against the already bruised bridge of her nose. She stumbled backwards, tears stinging her eyes, but he kept advancing.
“C’mon, love. Fight back,” he taunted, advancing quickly on her.
“I intend to, lover.” She smiled and threw fast blows, one after another, blocking his offensive and laughing. “But maybe not to win.” A large blackbird in the tree above them squawked, making Darcy look skyward. Jonathan took full advantage of her distraction, closing his hand around her throat and squeezing gently.
“I have no intention of letting you win.” He smiled wickedly and squeezed tighter around her throat. Darcy smiled, raising her head proudly, refusing to let him see how desperate she was to breathe. Butterflies rose in her stomach as his fingertips raised bruises under her jawline as he held even tighter. “Breathe,” he mocked. She closed her eyes and smiled defiantly. The same controlled fury she had seen earlier rose, cold as ice, into his eyes and he threw her against the tree behind her. She groaned as her back hit the tree and whatever breath was left pushed out of her mouth. She purrred seductively and leaned back against the rough trunk, raising her arms behind her and crossing her wrists over her head.
“Is that the best you can do?” She grinned and licked the blood from her lips. Her smug grin served to infuriate him further and he gripped her jaw, pressing her against the tree hard and leaning down kiss her mouth ferociously, biting her lips and drawing blood. He pressed his lips against her ear as he whispered, “I could kill you, you know.”
“Sure you could,” she panted, licking his cheek. “But I’m already dead.” Without warning, she brought her knee up fast, delivering a cheap shot to the groin, making him stumble back, spitting and cursing at her. She only laughed and kicked him gracefully in the face as he doubled over. As he fell backwards, she giggled and put her booted foot in the middle of his chest, pressing him against the cold, wet ground. “Maybe I could kill you too.”
“For your sake, I hope you do,” he growled, grabbing her foot and pushing her off of him. She stumbled back and watched as he rose from the ground, then turned and ran off towards the bridge.
As they entered Gotham City proper, the sky had started to lighten with the first break of day. It was too early for anyone to be awake, but streaks of fire had started to rip the sky. Gray clouds hung heavy over the city, keeping them covered in darkness as they ran. The sharp smell of burning leaves permeated the air as they came to the skeletal remains of Darcy’s house. The foundation still steamed in the cold, late November air. Darcy stopped running and leaned against what used to be the steps of her townhouse and waited for him to catch up. “I win,” she gasped, panting.
“What is this?” he coughed, looking around at the ashen remains.
“Darcy’s house,” she said, laughing. “Everything she ever cared about. All the old memories… dead. I killed her. Isn‘t it beautiful?” She laughed that insanely childish giggle and danced around in the rubble.
He stumbled over the debris as he walked towards her. “Impressive. And here I thought you’d just started a little campfire.”
“I needed to leave it behind. Burn it out---”
“Rising like a phoenix from the ashes? How--- poetic.”
“I thought so,” she smiled and pushed off of the wall, going to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I live only to please you.”
“Spare me.” He rolled his eyes and looked over her head at the streetlamp flickering. “You live because I wish it to be so… I could change my mind at any time.”
She grinned evilly. “But you won’t.” She turned her face up to his and when he made no move to kiss her, she raised up and kissed him instead. He kissed her back with a strange ferocity that could only be described as… passion? For once he pulled her against him and let his hands travel over her body for the sake of feeling the curves of her skin, not with mere mechanical dexterity. He knew that he would never let her go willingly. She was his perfect drug-- a flawless creation. “You might ruin me…” she whispered, licking the cuff of his ear seductively, “… but I’ll ruin you right back.”
“Beautiful Siren,” he rasped against her cheek softly before throwing her down on the smoldering embers. She growled at the gentle heat that kissed her skin and sat back on her elbows, watching him drop to his knees in front of her. “Join me-- and Gotham will be our plaything.” She did not answer, but stared at him through bloodstreaked eyes. He crawled stealthily towards her, his body enveloping hers from above. “And no one will ever make us weak--” Reaching down between them, he popped the button on her jeans, “or powerless--” His fingertips played at the triangle of flesh exposed just beneath her bellybutton, then leaning down slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he kissed the pale, burning skin. “Or abused---” His hands slid upwards, pushing the corset higher until it barely covered her breast, “ever… ever again.” His words oozed into her brain and began to burrow down. The hypnotic, melodic rise and fall of his voice was lulling her into a state of complete submission. That and the slick, softness of his hands, still covered in their blood, moving over every curve and valley of her body.
“God help me--” she whispered, staring up at a single star, its light just a pinprick. Tears of resolve and epiphany began to roll down her cheeks as she watched him undress her painstakingly slow.
He laughed, an eerie, resonating sound, “There is no God, Siren.” He grabbed her thigh, just under the back of her knee and pressed it roughly against her chest. “Only Scarecrow.” Before she could respond, she felt his breath against the vulnerable flesh that hid the inner folds of her sex. She arched up to him, praying that he would follow through, and he did, but without the sweet awkwardness of kisses, but with a savage bite that tore into her, the blood rushing to the site of the intoxicating pain. She cried out as he scraped his teeth against the taut bead of flesh in her center, but her cries went unnoticed as he continued, nibbling at the tender opening. It wasn’t until she screamed that he smirked and bathed the tiny red marks with his tongue, soothing the wounds with firm strokes and gentle kisses.
He pulled back suddenly and she whimpered, wanting him to go on and on. He rubbed his coarse cheek against her thigh as he released his grip. Siren panted with impatient wanting and her eyes burned as brightly as the pile of embers beneath their bodies. “I want---”
“What do you want, my dear?” he whispered, crawling further up her body.
“I-- I---” Her words were lost as he settled on top of her, kissing and nibbling at her neck. She wrapped one leg around his waist, pulling him against her, trying to rub her center against him. “I want to be what you are---” She growled and reached up, scratching her fingernails savagely down his back. She smiled, feeling his blood spill over her fingertips and drip between her fingers. He hissed and reached back, grabbing her wrists and pinning them over her head, pressing her arm into the mess of dirt, ash, and broken glass that littered the ground. She let out a strangled cry and struggled out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let her go.
With one low rumble deep in his throat, he drove into her-- thrusting his cock inside hard enough to make her sob with anguished satisfaction. “Make me whole again,” she whispered into his ear as he quickly found rhythm-- the world drifting into the background as they thrashed against one another. She tried to rise up to him, to meet his thrusting with movements of her own, but he dug the heel of his hand into her pelvic bone, holding her in place as he fucked her. This time was not about seduction. This time was about surrender-- and he would have her surrender by any means necessary.
He purrred in her ear, “Beg for final release from your old life, Siren. Beg to embrace your power.” He shifted just enough to make his cock slip deeper into her sex, a delicious friction building deep inside. She knew that once the climax came, there would be no turning back. She would truly become The Siren. Bound in darkness and exquisite fear. He kissed her with a strange gentility and innocence, ceasing all movement and sound. “Say my name and make your choice.”
As the wave of clarity and ecstasy washed over, sending her into a screaming orgasm, only one word would pass through her lips. “Scarecrow.”