Darker Scarecrow fic than I normally do, with elements of a couple of my favorite thrillers, "The Crow" and "Basic Instinct". :) I'm not sure IF I'll continue the story with another, so please, no one get your hopes up. You just never know.
Nothing belongs to me except my OC.
She'd grown up mostly on the streets, so she was always a survivor. Her mother was a drug addict, so there was no one to take care of her but herself. Even if she had to sell herself on the streets.
She knew what men were like, and those who picked young women up willingly were all the same. They saw a piece of tail and then paid - or didn't - after the night was over. The darkness she lived in was always too powerful to resist, the darkness that fueled her survival with each man she encountered from the time she was thirteen up until she was nineteen, but over those six years, she learned to take control when no one else taught her.
It began when she was fourteen and with a latest client. It was that first time she wore a very revealing garment to attract attention that a friend helped her pick out - a sexy little black lace dress, see-through so you could see the boned corset beneath and garter, fitted and long-sleeved, with a round neckline. It was also right then and there she made the decision to cut her long platinum blonde hair short above her shoulders so it was not always in the way. It was also easy to keep wild and free without tying it back. She enjoyed the feel of it flying in her face, hiding it sometimes so she could savor her private bliss and pretend her loathing partner was not there, her body coursed with dark desire that she took to make into her own; there was nothing sorry about each man, be that he was married and cheating or single and just enjoying being in control over every helpless female he could come across.
But not her. Not she.
She was helpless when she first began her line of work at the tender age of thirteen, but not by the following year.
Her innocence was taken the year before, violated on her first night - but it also gave her the experience to be prepared for the dangers of Old Gotham. It was also the year before that her mother died of an overdose. She could still feel the pain in her lower regions as the flesh as tender as her ripe teenage body was torn and bled savagely. But from the pain came the fire of vengeance. The man promised he would find her again someday, and she prepared.
A year later, she WAS ready for him.
By then she donned that costume and was riding him that night, naked as the day she was born, sweating with pleasure and pain - pain in her heart, with anger and hatred at this man. But it also molded her into the fighter she was now. And no fear of the consequences as she picked up her weapon with help from a movie that had long been her favorite since she was ten years old that her mother once birched her for exposing herself to.
An ice pick.
The blood spilling and spraying about her body was sheer fiery bliss. To see and feel the crimson liquid fire on her bared flesh was fabulous. Her nipples hardened with the intoxication; the drug use was bad enough, so this was an excellent substitute. Save for a drink on occasion, she never indulged in recreational drugs. Her body was clean if not sexually so. But she never contracted any diseases, always wore protection and took her shots.
No one ever suspected her of the crime or found her DNA anywhere. She was always careful to not put her fingerprints everywhere - anywhere. This went on anytime she gave herself to a man and then took his money for herself. If anyone discovered her activities, then she would be called a monster. A psychopath, but she disagreed altogether. Her actions were completely justified. She did what she had to in order to survive - and she therefore prevented those men from harming another woman like her.
She was taken off the streets when she was nineteen. She had gone into the tattoo parlor when she was crossed with the owner who saw she had a real talent for art, offered her a job she could not refuse. Martin was like the father she never had, the first one she could trust. They might not always agree, but he was the first.
And the next to come was an even stranger fellow from the main section of Gotham. A man feared by its people for his equally dark passion.
She had taken a drive into the city, two years after she got off the streets, unbound by lack of support from the city and freer than life granted her. So much fresh meat to pick up in her leisurely activities, bring home and then finish off. Eventually, someone picked up on her.
"I believe that man was supposed to be for me."
She remembered it all like it was yesterday. She was in the autumn night, wearing her protective coat, roaming the streets but armed - namely her ice pick, but you could never go wrong with mace either - and it was after she disposed of the corpse of her latest victim that the voice startled her, and she withdrew her ice pick, pointing it at the shadows and seeing the outline of a man wearing a pointed hat, chuckling sinisterly at her defense. "Is that all, my dear?" he purred, a serpent's hiss in the edge. "An ice pick? Fancy I have never encountered so fierce a female with a mere pick."
She snorted. "Who are you? And what do you want with me?"
"Really, you should be clever enough to know that kind of question won't get you much of anywhere." The man stepped closer, showing a face of hideously stitched fabric and equally torn clothes. His eyes were so dark you could not tell if he had any. He sent shivers up her spine, but he didn't scare her. "The man you...killed was supposed to be my next subject."
"Subject? For what?" She automatically assumed he was some kind of doctor. And a deranged one, at that. Looking at him closer, she could have sworn she'd seen him somewhere...
"Why, you don't know who I am?" He laughed, his voice threatening to excite the late night residents. "I am fear incarnate, the terror of Gotham...I am the Scarecrow."
She lowered her pick, but only by an inch. The Scarecrow...YES. The man who spread fear throughout Gotham State, causing mass terror and panic with some hallucinogenic gas. He was apprehended by this mysterious Batman and sent to Arkham Asylum. Now it seemed he had broken out. "I remember now," she said softly, narrowing her eyes. "What now, you see me as your next guinea pig, Scarecrow?"
His eyes glittered with malicious delight. "Are you volunteering in his place, child?" he asked, a soft croon present now. He stood in front of her now, and her ice pick was enough to touch against his heart. He stared down at it with bemused interest, then raised a hand covered, too, with burlap and tenderly tapped the long thin blade as though with childlike fascination - which disturbed her. No one disturbed her anymore, but he did. She had the feeling he might not be like the other men she encountered, but if there was a way to take care of this one...
"Tell me, my pet...what hidden terror keeps you awake at night?"
His hand had come up to try and caress her cheek, but she raised the pick again to his face, making him laugh. "You're so spirited."
"I won't tell you my secrets, Scarecrow," she said frostily, "because what are YOU to use my night terrors against me that you have done to so many others before now?"
He blinked behind his mask, silence passing briefly, before he laughed again, pulling his hand back. "Oh, I believe I might enjoy this with you. Whatever is your name, child?"
She didn't want to give him her name, but they also said if you gave them a false one, they would find you eventually. And if you didn't, they would forcefully persuade you - even if it was violent. This man had more than just violent tricks up his sleeve. "Katharine."
Scarecrow smiled, visible through the opened hole of his mask. "Now, that was easy. And your surname?"
She was tempted to spit at him, but knew that would only set him off. "Terrell."
"Mmm, Katharine Terrell...that has a nice ring to it. And I..." He reached up and took his hat off, showing yellow straw hair which was part of his costume, gone along with his mask - showing a face that was all too similar to Ichabod Crane, one of the few great literary characters she carried from her short-lived childhood. Large nose on a pale face, eyes dark as the sky above, and wild red hair giving away he was befitting of the nightmarish creature he posed as.
"Jonathan Crane, former professor of psychology."
It explained his experience with exposing his victims to their worst fears, she learned over the course of the night. He did not make her a subject, and she was determined to not give him the upper hand. Katharine found herself drawn to him, her body thrumming with the same desire she had with each victim of hers. But Jonathan Crane was, as she said, not like any other man she encountered. He was more...refined, respectable despite what she learned other people said about him. He was far more intelligent than any other man known, his brains and influence more powerful than brute strength - and that was why Katharine Terrell was attracted to him.
He was a man in his early forties; she was only twenty-three years old now. She began to see him as often as she could, and he visited her as often as he could spare his time. The last she heard of him not long after their first meeting was when he was betting with the local bookies on the athletes of Gotham, winning by using their greatest fears against them - his fear toxin in powder form combined with adrenaline rush. Unfortunately, the Batman had him taken back to the asylum.
As Katharine got to know him, she discovered there was method and reason to his madness, a light to his darkness: he suffered at the hands of his fanatically religious grandmother and the school bullies, his parents abandoned him - he was alone most of his life. Somehow, she began to feel sympathy for him as she knew what it was like to be abused.
This was the first time she saw a man in a monster.
"Kat?"
"Martin," she acknowledged when she just finished the web-like black ink on the back of the latest skinhead in their shop, smiling lightly.
"I'm heading home now. Get a good night's rest after you lock up, dear," he told her with a pat on her back before pulling his coat on and leaving her alone with her last client. Smirking, Katharine went back to her job.
Getting home without incident, she headed straight for her bedroom in her apartment to change out of her clothing - a sheer black lace top over a flaming purple tank and faded jeans - into something more comfortable, but not after she took her shower. When she was out, she picked up her black satin bra with lace above the cups - eventually she decided against it and discarded it with her other garments, slipping the dress on that she saved just for him.
She knew by now when he would always come to her. But even when he did not, for certain reasons, she would gladly wait for him - and tonight was the night she knew it. Looking herself over in the mirror, Katharine admired the bohemian burgundy dress with the fluttering sleeves, and the embroidery around the bust, which was stringed in the opened front like a corset.
In her ears were black rose studs. Around her neck, she fastened the black satin ribbon with the charm of the black raven carrying a black rose suspended with a crystal drop. Slipping on her left forefinger was a ring with a fairy on either side of the band, centered with a crystal of icy green. Similarly, a naked silver fairy against flowers wrapped around the middle finger of her right hand, as the wrist was wrapped powerfully with a dragon complete from head to tail.
Ahhh, to smell herself when she sprayed herself with her favorite perfume, which was of sandalwood and lush flowers. This was what helped entice Crane the first time she seduced him in her black satin cocktail dress when they met at the local bar - and afterwards, she took him back to her house, and the long-caged beastly desire that festered had been let loose with a vengeance. Both of them sustaining bites and bruises, nails upon flesh to draw blood...Katharine had never been more exhilarated that she knew she could not bring herself to kill him in particular. He never once betrayed her; he was not like the other men, as she kept saying to herself. And that was the last time she would.
Now she had gotten herself a drink of her favorite Jack Daniels, waiting patiently for his arrival as she left the window opened for him. He was a wanted man that this part of Gotham would be "safer" for him to come.
"Allowing the dangers of the night to invade your sanctuary, are we?"
Smiling wryly, Katharine turned around to see him standing there in full costume. It had been an agreement from then on to meet while in his entire Scarecrow persona, for the danger he relished came with his disguise. "I've been expecting you," she said softly, holding her Jack D up to him, making him snort.
"I know what you will ask me, and the answer will always be no. Alcohol is a terrible disease to the body." He now stood beside her, rather behind her, leaning in so his masked mouth, the rough burlap edges especially, rubbed against the bared skin of her shoulder. She shivered and sighed at the intimate touch - intimate being truthful for once.
"Just like the last time?" she asked, purring in her throat, turning her face away and exposing more of her neck to him, allowing him more access to her jugular vein and the beginning of the breast in his direction.
"Mmm, that depends which form of 'last time' you refer to, kitty cat," he hissed, irritating her with the childish, inappropriately bordered name. "What if we start like this..." His fingers reached around to tug on the strings of her bodice, then pulled the fabric down to expose her breast to his hungry eyes and teasing fingertips, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned and closed her eyes, almost dropping her glass before she set it down on the worn wooden countertop, giving him her full attention. He hissed again at the response. "Excellent." He proceeded to push the dress the rest of the way down and exposing the rest of her body to him. "No underwear - very naughty, Miss Terrell."
"You know full well no underwear makes it better, don't you think so, Professor?" she returned, turning her head halfway around to bat her lashes mischievously at him. He chuckled in response, caressing her back with one hand as well as tracing the only tattoo she owned - the silver-lined black raven wings centered with a red rose. Symbolic of the dark eroticism that dominated both their lives.
After making way for the bedroom, the bed covered with zebra stripes paneled with solid red and black, she laid down first on her back, watching as his tattered scarecrow clothes were dropped from his body, revealing a rib cage and inwardly curved six-pack, a lightly muscled chest and jutting hips, as well as long limbs with soft muscles and showing veins. As well, a slight reddish brown trail began below his navel and met with the beginning of the darker mass above his length. She chuckled deeply; for an older man, he had a finer form than the muscled brutes in existence. Turned on but annoyed by her laugh, Crane leaned over and instead of kissing her mouth as they had done before, he started with her plump breasts which filled a C-cup, nibbling the hard tips and then moved lower to tease her navel, then took her weeping inner entrance into his mouth. Closing her eyes, Katharine moaned and writhed beneath him. His lips and nose teased the blonde curls before finding the sensitive, moist flesh and best part of her body, driving her crazy until she could take it no more, and he positioned himself over her.
Their bodies joined together with a sadistic passion, her nails clawing at his back, scraping enough to draw blood and making him rear his head back, growling like the monster he was in the eyes of society. The squeezing eyelids and baring of teeth caused her to wrap herself tighter around him than before. At a point, he held her down by the wrists as he drove himself harder and faster into her body, taking his frustration out - at the Batman for ruining him once again, at the memory of his disgrace, and at those who brought him to where he was now. They were all distant memories with two exceptions, and no secrets kept from Katharine, who accepted his anger as she took hers out on other men before him.
When the round was over, he released inside her before resting himself on top of her, breathing hotly against her and savoring the masculine pride his body thrived on, having all the control that everyone around him tried to take away from him. And since he knew very well that this woman beneath him was no different from him in that sense, given he'd seen what she could do on occasion, he rolled himself off of her so she could take him over with her feminine power.
Her body shining in front of his eyes, Jonathan smiled as he let himself be straddled. His own arched, threatening to snap in half like a twig as she rode him like he was the best horse she'd ever ridden, the pleasure easily described as something sinful in the mind of a simple religious fanatic. Those people knew nothing of this kind of rapture. He wanted to reach up and grasp those heaving breasts above him, touch that glorious form which arched backwards so her short blonde hair hung over her back, eyes squeezed tight so he could not look into warm hazel eyes with an even darker heart - and the climax was blazing fury when she threw herself over him, smashing her form against his, as they were consumed with liquid fire between their bodies.
Jonathan Crane never slept around, never thought of anything but his life's work. But Katharine Terrell, a woman with a soul as dark as his own, was the one he prized more than anyone in the world. He would gladly share his world with her even if it was always ridden with threats and being taken back to prison each time. But he would always break out and reclaim freedom - and he would always return to her.
The late Henry Polic II did a fabulous voice of him, no matter anyone else saying his accent was silly. I thought it was memorable without the proper words. He was the first Scarecrow I was ever exposed to, making my childhood memorable with fear as he did to a lot of others. XD Very creepy when you're a child - but sexy when you reach adult years.
Last year when I published "Elizabeth and the Scarecrow", I dedicated it to him even though it had been two years since he passed away from cancer. I can't believe when we get to August 11th this year, it will mark THREE years exactly.
Katharine is much darker than my usual OC fare, but I'm proud of her. :) Sharon Stone provided splendid inspiration. And Professor Jonathan Crane is a "man who can't resist the danger", much like Michael Douglas.
Reviews are much appreciated.