DISCLAIMER: He isn't mine. She is.
A/N: This isn't even a fanfic for the books. It's for the movie that will be out in October. The male character is Michael Sullivan, the Butcher, but the one from the movie, so he looks like... Well, you know what he looks like. ;)
WARNING: This is a rape fantasy. If you are disturbed by the idea, back off now. If you want to discuss it, feel free to PM me.
It has never been about lust.
Certainly not first and foremost. He has no problem following the general rules of the social protocol regarding lust and fucking a willing prey until she squirms underneath him in delight, although he doesn't really do anything differently on those occasions. They think themselves into the rapture when he holds them down and has his way with them. The will is a powerful thing and it never ceases to amaze him. It erases the line between violence and sex, while for him, the line is blurred but never absent. His satisfaction can not be complete without deliberately crossing it, whether his quarry is aware of his mindset or not.
However, he doesn't really care about hurting them, either way. If he does, he does, usually because they keep up the resistance. The resistance that's crucial for what the real thrill is: breaking it. Breaking the girl. Taking complete control over her body and mind in the heat of the moment, scarring her for life, like he has been scarred. Seeing the blazing fire of hatred and fear and determination in her eyes burn out as she becomes The Victim. Makes him feel like the fucking king of the world.
But the urge never distracted him on a job before and he finds it alarming that his normally dead focused gaze wanders from the window of his target to the one where a woman is getting ready for work in Wall Street, from the looks of it. She fits the profile perfectly. A slender blonde, buttoned up in a crisp white shirt, a pencil skirt hugging her hips. It's true that he likes them all prim and proper, that's why he cruises the streets of Lower Manhattan when he needs a fix, but it's his post-job ritual, a release that other people use hard liquor for. Instant gratification on a whim is not his style and when he's on the hunt it has his full attention anyway.
He adjusts his binoculars. She sips her coffee, fixes her tight ponytail, shuffles some papers around, lights up a cigarette. A neurotic perfectionist. Women like that are either uptight prudes or closet sluts. Which are both the same thing. He knows he could walk up to her, with a random excuse, and after feigning the obligatory reluctance she would go to a bar with him, have a drink, then another, and by the third round her inhibitions would be long forgotten. Oh yes, he knows they all respond to his symmetrical features and strapping silhouette, which, rather than feed his vanity, makes him disdain them. Pathetic stupid cows, like moth to the candle. A fine piece of ass is a fine piece of ass, though, he's not as stupid as to turn one down when she comes up to him, plus appearances need to be kept for precaution, but it never matches the kick he gets from making them do it.
He blames the long uneventful hours that he's spent watching his target's building, learning the daily routine of the idiot who dared to try and fuck with him. Last night he was still fully alert, like the unfaultable killing machine that he is, his brain processing information with zero-one precision, he would be immune to the lure of the stranger even if she paraded naked in her apartment, hell, he wouldn't skip a heartbeat if a dozen of naked chicks appeared there. But now his focus is broken and it's her fault and as soon as he's done here, he'll help himself to the candy the way he likes it best.
Click, click, click, he can hear the sound of her heels on the pavement even from across the street and four floors up. Just a tad bit too high to be comfortable, a sign of insecurity. He wonders if she would try to run in them if he scared her enough on an empty street at night and the mental image amuses him. No, no point to risk attracting attention, he's a pro at this too. This is new and unusual; he's never entertained the idea of planning ahead, watching his unsuspecting prey, closing in circles on her… But he finds that he likes it. The anticipation tastes pretty damn good, even if it takes his mind off of the important stuff, which should set off the red light in his head. That's okay, he can compartmentalize, the business-class gazelle is gone for the day. He'll indulge when she returns. He goes back to his efficient weapon mode and only shortly before he moves for finalizing his main task, he lets his mind flash to her straight posture, imagining the look on her face if he cornered her in one of those glass and chrome buildings when no one else is there. Beautiful panic in those wide Bambi eyes. It makes him smile.
Click, click, click.
Every step takes her closer to the safety of her apartment. She has never considered herself particularly fearful or at least she knows it's important to not appear as such. So she's taking long, sure strides, her posture straight and exuding decisiveness. Her feet are sore in her heels, but she's not slowing down. She's taken the late night subway ride and walked down the street from her station home countless of times, reasoning with herself that the local drunks are not capable of doing her much harm and the street is usually empty anyway and empty is good, it means she has no one to be wary of. Only tonight it isn't and the silhouette she can just see on the sidewalk across from her fills her body with tension. Tall and square, it's got to be a man. He's got a hood pulled tightly over his head and she's trying not to look, not to draw any attention to herself. Her pace doesn't change but her heart is racing. There's a block of abandoned property, with a couple of dark back alleys that she needs to walk past- God, why is he crossing the street? She can't see him anymore, but she can hear his footsteps behind her, maybe a few yards away, walking at the exact same pace she does.
She considers stopping and asking him about time, about directions, for a cigarette… Anything that would throw him. But it's only that one block and then she's home. She wishes she could reach discreetly for her cell phone and have 911 dialed on standby. One, two, three steps and it'll be her door-
"Nice ass," she hears just as she sets her foot on the first step. Shock and surprise prevent any physical reaction from her and barely throwing a glance to the passing man, she jams her key into the lock and turns it swiftly.
Phew! She almost bursts out in half nervous half relieved giggles as she leans against the closed door in the dark apartment. That was so stupid, of course it's a safe neighborhood, no one has ever bothered her. The adrenaline no longer pumped into her system, she can feel the relief coming in waves while she kicks her shoes off, shrugs off her jacket and turns the light on -
Almost right in front of her, there's a man.
Just as tall and strapping as the one on the street, but no hood and she can see his sharp, angular features clearly and his head is shaved and he's wearing black leather gloves, her mind ridiculously takes in the inventory as it tries to process the probability of him being real instead of making her scream or run or even ask what is he doing at her place and how did he get in.
Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. It feels like it's happening to somebody else when, with the agility of a panther, he leaps forward and has her trapped between his hard body and the plane of the door behind her in milliseconds. The unyielding grip of his hand on her arm makes it as hard to breathe as if it was on her throat. There's a sudden shining of light reflected in metal by the side of her face. A surgical scalpel.
"You have a pretty little mouth and I don't really want to use this on it," he speaks in a low, growling tone that sounds of steel resolve as much as it drips with some twisted passion. "But if you do anything stupid…" he presses the cold blade to her cheek. "Trust me, I'll have absolutely no problem doing it. Understand?"
Weakly, she nods once, trying to regain control on her brain beyond the all-consuming fear. She believes him. The intense stare of his dark eyes is like nothing she has ever seen before, almost inhuman, like he's possessed and it's a force that knows no boundaries beyond itself. Like pleading or appealing to his reason won't work because there isn't any.
"Who… What do you want from me?" Her voice squeaks when she tries to make some sense out of the nightmare her life has just turned into.
"Quiet." He grabs her face in one – really large, she notices – hand and squeezes. "You speak when I tell you to."
She can feel the knot down her throat and the stinging of helpless tears that threaten to flow down and tries to blink them away. "I don't have much here, but there's the check book –" she whispers in a hurry before his hand closes on her neck.
"I said quiet," he drawls through clenched teeth; she can smell strong mint on his breath. "I don't care about your fucking money," he sneers with a grimace of disdainful grin.
That's when the terror really kicks in. He's not a burglar she's just surprised on the job. He's after her, for whatever sick plan he's got prepared. Her knees start to shake uncontrollably as her mind flashes to all the stories of serial killers that she's read and to what they did to their victims before killing them. She can feel the blade of his scalpel tickle the delicate skin of her throat.
"You're scared," he states, his eyes scanning her face. Like it's an equivalent of arousal and menacing her is his idea of foreplay.
The worst part is that he's actually not bad looking. He would definitely turn her head on the street, being the right combination of strong, angular frame, broad shoulders, classically handsome features and groomed, polished style. It adds to the terror: somehow evil should be ugly and this should be safe and if it isn't, what, who can be ever trusted again? Again. If she makes it out of this. The notion of his looks makes one more thing clear. It's not sex that he wants, either. He wouldn't even have to pay for it. It's something else, something no sane person would offer willingly, possibly pain, a lot of it. It's okay, she can take it, as long as she makes it in one piece, she'll do anything he wants, she bargains with herself.
There's a swift slash against her chest and he's got all the buttons of her shirt flying across the floor like cut-off flower heads.
"Take it off," he says and lets go of her arm.
She should push him away and run for the kitchen, get a knife or something, but she does as she's told, like in a trance. There's fire in his eyes, excitement. It could pass for an endearing look if the situation was different and she's disgusted with herself for the thought. Another quick cut and he has her bra open, hanging off of her shoulders in surrender. And he just… looks, never once trying to touch her, making it feel alarmingly like a game that she's got herself manipulated into but is never the less actively participating in.
"No," she shakes her head and covers her naked breasts with her hands. Immediately, the blunt edge of the scalpel is pressed to her nose, hard.
"Do as I say or someone gets hurt."
It's somewhat of a relief to be reminded she has no say here, that she's being forced. It's out of her control and there's only one way to go. Her arms move slowly, working the bra off and she watches him take off his jacket, then place it neatly on the nearby chair, his eyes trained firmly on her all the time. He's got tattoos on the underside of his muscular arms. And he keeps the gloves on; that's got to be a good sign, right? He's not planning to leave any evidence.
"On your knees."
Reluctantly, she complies. If this is what she thinks it is, perhaps it's not going to be so bad. She can go through the motions if there's a chance he leaves her after he gets what he wants.
He pulls down the zipper of his pants and pulls out his very large cock, not entirely hard yet, but obviously swelling up. She gulps down the tension in her throat: he's turned on by her dread. A man she'd be attracted to out in public is getting off on reducing her to a helpless, powerless pile of fear. He grasps her chin and pulls it up. "Don't even think about using your teeth or I'll knock them out," he hisses before letting go abruptly, so that her head bobs away hitting the wall. "All of them."
"Now suck it," he grabs her head on both sides and thrusts his groin into her face. "Open your mouth."
She does, thinking that this can't be true, he would be too distracted with the pain if she bit him, maybe enough for her to unlock the door and run. But on the other hand maybe he wouldn't, the extensive tattoos indicate a high threshold for pain. And what if this is all he wants? It may be wiser to just go with it.
He tastes of soap and of musky male flavor that she hates, hates to admit she wouldn't find repulsing if she had a chance to give her consent. It's an unnerving realization, because there's not a single fiber in her body that isn't screaming no when he pushes himself deep into her mouth, until the head of his cock hits the back of her throat and she gags.
"I said open your mouth, bitch!" He pulls her head higher, sending his swollen flesh further down her throat. The excess saliva overflows her mouth like she's going to throw up and she can barely breathe, but she does her best to fight the reflex of jerking her head away. But she doesn't fight the tears any longer. It's the pain, the terror, the humiliation and the betrayal of the world that this horrible thing is happening to her and that the devil wears the face of a striking human male. Who doesn't seem to care about or even notice her hands pushing at his thighs in a futile attempt to lessen the assault.
She doesn't even get to do any actual sucking and a part of her is grateful for that. The other part is defeated and broken. His threats couldn't prepare her for how it feels to be used as an expendable piece of meat. To be too scared to fight and then feeling like she deserves what she's getting for not fighting. He makes that low, guttural sound that gives her hope he's about to finish. She tries to think of anywhere but here as he holds on to her head, pulls her hair forcing himself in and out of her mouth in ruthless thrusts; Iceland, she's always wanted to see Iceland. Beautiful, green rolling hills and hot springs… Fresh ocean breeze and picturesque countryside… There's still so many places to see -
"Get up." Brutally, she's brought back to her cruel reality when he decides to stop fucking her skull for some reason and sends her into a coughing fit to try and find a more regular breathing rhythm. He's nowhere near finished: his now fully erect penis is sticking out defiantly out of his fly, red and dripping with her saliva.
"What…" she tries to speak – her throat is as sore as if hard liquor was just poured down through it – but he just pulls her up by her ponytail.
"Just get the fuck up!"
She's past caring about keeping a dignified pose when she drags herself up to standing position. If she thought she could do this, she was wrong. She just hopes he can see the hatred in her eyes and she hates herself even more for ever recognizing his objective good looks. To make things worse, his leather-clad thumb wipes her mouth in an almost tender, almost like a lover's, touch.
"You're no good at this," he scorns her, in contrast with his action but matching his mocking glare. Ridiculously so, the comment makes her feel inadequate, like she failed at her designated role. This is probably how abusers control their victims; the guilt and shame are already creeping up on her.
"My name's Anna," she whispers, in effort to give herself some human quality in his eyes.
"Nice try," his lips contort in a superficial smile. "But I already know all of your names."
Was he stalking her? When, where? She knows better than to ask, but the stakes just got to a new level: an obsessed psychopath is probably ten times more dangerous than a compulsive rapist. Surprisingly, this time he supplies the answer.
"I had a little time to get acquainted with your life while you were working overtime, Annie," his iron grip closes around her forearm again and he yanks, forcing her to follow him into her dining room. "I know where you work, where you shop, where you go on vacation…" How can he be so damn calm and calculating in the middle of deliberately harming an innocent person? There's only sick determination all over his face. She's shaking like a leaf when he pushes her torso to the table, face first. Why can't she find her voice to scream for help?
"Oh, and you have two cute little nieces that live on the West Coast with your sister… San Diego, isn't it?"
Her fists curl into balls underneath her chest and a book that has been on the table digs into her ribs. She can feel him pull up her skirt over her hips and shuts her eyes close.
"Which is why," suddenly, his body is pressed to hers from behind. She can feel the weight of his cock against her buttocks through the thin layers of her panties and tights and his body heat radiating onto her bare back. "You will keep quiet now and never tell anyone later." Her eyes snap open to find his hand planted firmly on the table; the veins in his hairy forearms are bulging and the muscles are strained. She can see a skull tattoo, but can't determine the rest of the design. Such a distinctive identification mark and yet he doesn't seem concerned.
"Please…no," she whispers, knowing full well it's useless, hearing the sound of nylon being ripped apart.
"You do not want to see one of those cherubs gutted like Thanksgiving turkey," his breath burns her ear with every menacing word. "And I would spare you long enough to watch every single minute of it."
"I… won't tell," she sobs helplessly, "just… please, don't hurt me!" The scalpel cuts through her panties with ease and she feels it skim across the sensitive skin of her labia.
"We are only having fun, Annie."
Like a limp puppet, she's roughly turned around and shoved on the table, her back colliding with the hard surface and her legs forced up over her head as he folds her in half effortlessly. There's nothing she can do to compete with his strength or to push him away with absolutely no leverage, her arms flap like feeble chicken wings.
"I like to see your face when you say no," he bares his teeth in a mirthless, spiteful scowl. And then just do what he wants anyway, she realizes, the predatory triumph over his victim being the satisfaction that most people find in receiving approval. She presses her lips together deciding the least she can do is to not give him that.
But when he takes his cock in his hand and forces it inside her, dry, she can't help the cry that comes from the painful invasion.
"God, no!" She shrieks, pathetically. "It hurts!"
"You can take it," he hisses with twisted elation, pushing harder against her protest, clearly feeding off of it.
The physical pain she actually could take, reminding herself that it's temporary, that it will end at some point when he'll have had enough, but it hurts in so many ways beyond that, her dignity, her will, her humanness being completely demeaned as she's turned into a sex toy with a pulse. Every rough, disregarding thrust will be forever etched in her memory and she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to deal with it. She feels her inner muscles being stretched to the point of snapping when he fills her out completely, his pelvis flush with her exposed bottom.
"Nice and snug," he observes, like it's some sort of cruel compliment.
"Please, stop…" She begs despite her resolve to appear detached. But of course, he doesn't. He sneers at her distress and just grabs her by the hip with the hand that's not pressing on her thighs and only pulls away far enough to come back stronger, in what feels like a try to rip her in half.
"Look at me." He demands when she turns her head to the side, face contorted in pain and mortification. "Fucking look!" The sudden slap stings her cheek and she gasps, complying in terror.
"That's better," he drives his cock inside her yet more violently, like her tearful gaze revs him up; which it probably does.
She just wants this to end. Or maybe ceasing to exist would be better. His perfectly symmetrical face is a picture of pure insanity as he continues to rape her for what seems like eternity. She knows he doesn't care one bit about her response other than rejection, but she does, and the fact that his bare shoulders glisten with sweat that smells of sex rather than the sadism he's executing – what does sadism even smell of? – and that her mind flashes to the fantasy she once entertained are not helping, because dear God, she's never wished for it to happen. And why, why does this animal has to mess with her head by making her look?
It's no longer painful, her vagina has gone numb, or that's what she thinks herself into. She stares at him with unseeing eyes, barely noticing his vengeful but blank expression, like he's somewhere else, too, like hurting her specifically doesn't matter anymore. And she chooses to ignore the tingling sensation between her legs, because it's just involuntary bodily reaction.
Once, twice, he thrusts harder, the grasp of his hand tightening. His face tenses up and then he stills completely, making her let out a ragged sigh of relief: it's over.
Only then he pulls out of her battered body and shoves her own hand down to her folds; her eyes widen in shock at the discovery of the copious amount of wetness there.
"Finish yourself off," he says, tucking his cock back in his pants as if this was just a regular hook-up. "Do it!"
Too shaken to contemplate objecting, she moves her fingers weekly, thinking she'd just fake it and then he'll hopefully be gone, but he stands there on splayed legs, his leather-clad hands nonchalantly shoved down the pockets of his pants, watching her defiantly.
His warm semen seeps out of her already – the lack of condom having been used is the least of her worries as she's half laying on the table exposed and vulnerable – and mixes with her own juices where she's gathering them up to enable her task: the show she's forced to perform.
He won't know if it's genuine or not, will he? A few robotic sighs and whimpers should do the job. But the longer she looks at his domineering stance, his cold dark eyes, the memory of his forcefulness fresh, the more an uninvited orgasm threatens to overcome her body, along with a flooding wave of guilt - She slides to the floor in defeat, crushed and conquered, her shredded clothes around her.
"Now, remember our little conversation," he cocks his head with a smirk before calmly collecting his jacket and letting himself out of her apartment.
She has never felt more betrayed.
He knows she's going to ask herself endlessly why me? and wonder what did she do wrong, is it something she said or wore? Why did her body deceive her? The same thing he asked himself years ago. The answer was always the same: bad-fucking-luck.
THE END