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ADULT CONTENT
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Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
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Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
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On Scarlet Nights Like These by AstersQuill - Author Page
Night falls once more over the cityscape, bringing with it the cool sweeping of the early autumn air. A Chill pushes itself gently against the window, seeping in through the cracks, into the warm abode. It is not the time to be out in the elements, at this time at night, yet many are braving them to find themselves somewhere — maybe to find themselves with someone. Couples find themselves in each other's company on nights like these, pulling each other close, intertwined, forgetting how long it was they were kept apart.
You too will find yourself like those couples, should you feel brave enough.
Often, you are given advanced warning, on nights like these, in wink or flirt, sometimes even in plain text. And yet you are still not quite sure how to act, what to be. Always studious, you often tried to meet what awaited you in page and ink, poring over the many details, intimate, and bulleted steps that rearranged themselves in your mind. You never do get it quite right. When you were younger, the importance of having a plan was drilled into you, but plans were always so fast to fall apart in practice. No amount of preparation would help you. Maybe, you simply did not understand this type of love, not quite able to get a grasp on its language or mechanics. It was a test but also not, not something that could be so easily resolved on parchment. It was practical, real, and required an amount of courage that you never had, nor, your heart tells you, ever will.
But courage was in facing that fear, whenever it is you could.
Despite the continued failure of all your planning, here you are, pacing and preparing still. There is an unshakeable feeling on these nights that you should begin saying your goodbyes. To what, whom, is never exactly clear. You just cannot shake the sense of finality in the air, that some aspect or aspects of yourself are, for better or worse, slowly being eroded away — always another step forward that can never be taken back. Why is something you were told to be so liberating still feel so constricting? Why did it feel like your repression was being traded for something far more sinister?
You already know the answer, but you are afraid, even denying to come out and say it. So instead, let Me make Myself known in your silence.
Your imagination must already be running wild, must be responsible for the gnawing feeling in your chest that will not let you sit still. It is a feeling that warms your cheeks, makes it harder to swallow, as if you had snacked on tearings of cotton. Your Second Heart amplifies that feeling, gnaws at you in its own way, extending out a hand to make real what you have only dreamed in your mind. More and more you find yourself relying on Me — close your eyes, reach into the mirror, and know that I will be there to catch you.
You have grown intoxicated with the safety I provide. Though you deny it, you never would have though Your Fear to be so inviting, so comfortable, that you were ever be brave enough to become one with it. Relish the thought — let yourself slip below the water's surface in your mind, take solace in the fact that I will not let you drown quite yet. How right you were to put your faith in Us.
I do not need to guess what it is you feel, princess. You have always been quite easy to read. Your nature was never one of deception, lying, though your fear has certainly manifested in something greater than your base instinct. Insect, feel the swarming of your fluttering heart, the strain as the butterflies in your chest steal the air when you finally remember to breathe.
Allow yourself a glimpse at the dissolution of your worldly façade: your usually-purple irises tinged with crimson, the tips of Our canines peeking from beneath your lips — run your tongue across the peaks, and imagine just how hungry they are to sink into flesh. I know you can feel it too. You used to fear this part of yourself, Our dark reflection, your ferality sloppily buried under half-hearted attempts to domesticate you. You learned fast that you could not kill Us, nor did you see yourself capable at nipping at the beating hand that fed — how quick you were to choose the Devil you knew, the one so disinterested in pulling wool over your eyes.
In truth, you have always been quite plain. After the heartbreak of your first crush, that oh so valiant hunter who viewed Us with reverence, your captors endeavored to shut you in your island tower. Let down your hair, Meri, play your role well, and be rewarded in the protection of the world that was always going to wound you. You were never meant to make it this far. You are simply too noticeable, your ears and hoofs and antlers, the measurements of your stripped-bare body, changing in ways they would never allow — you know better than to let them lay their hands on you now.
Right?
Yet through it all, you are still reminded of your resplendence, imbibed with the euphoria when Our lover traces over your fawn spot freckles, likening them to stars. You do not feel like a star compared to her; if anything, you are quite like the moon, outwardly glowing only with the light she gives you. She has not seen all of Us, not yet, though she certainly has not been shy to let you see all of her… or so you want to believe.
Hear her approach, the jingling keys unshackling the bolt she always reminded you, several times to lock. Keys that allowed her and her alone entry into this cozy birdcage whenever she wished. How does it feel to be so weak that you cannot even be trusted to protect yourself? How… noble of your knight to keep you safe in this way, keeping you away. What greater act of love than for her too to be your jailer.
And so the peacock struts in — the emerald of her hair, blue of her gaudy jacket, the way she excitedly squawks out to you from across the room. How embarrassing would it be for her to see the way your little tail wags, Pet, or how you restrain yourself from entering her orbit until the door is secured shut behind her. You can barely squeak out a question about her day before her lips are on Ours, reminding you what exactly it is she came here for.
It distracts you just enough to stumble at a heavy weight hitting you in the leg, knocking you from her lips. She removes the bag from her shoulder, producing from it a bottle of absinthe for you, and a loose collection of aluminum cans for herself.
Before long, the two of you are sprawled out on the moss-covered floor, toasting your poisons. Earlier today, she told you she was planning a "celebration" for the two of you at the end of syllabus week. It was a celebration of freedom for the both of you — at least that was how she put it. Some part of you is unable to believe it. It is only you who is considered dangerous enough to remain alone on an island for much of the summer while she is free to roam. When was the last time she even thought to visit you during your imposed isolation?
And how else might she have roamed, princess? Her thoughts and affections on those lonely nights, looking for someone else to keep her company in your stead? You see how easy Our knight loves — I wonder if there was once another she kept from you?
At least she is here now, at least in body. The weight of her leaning on your shoulder is a surety of that. She grows warmer and warmer, the blush on her face spreading, the looks into your eyes getting deeper. You yourself are not immune to the effects of your drink, the licorice burn muddling the already-faint delineation between you and I. You remember reading about the hallucinations absinthe drinkers claimed to have about a green lady that would meet them towards the end of the bottle. At times it was fun to imagine what it might be like to be a phantasm in that way, though you knew no matter what you did they lady you strived to become would never be green — You Were Always Meant To Wear The Scarlet
Yet there is someone who objects, the one who has not quite had her fill of you tonight. Her eyes are filled with want — you know that look well. You know how beautifully they pair themselves with excitement on the nights you choose not to be a coward, and how awfully it hurts to seem them paired with disappointment, when she quietly responds that "it's fine."
When she notices her eyes are not met with denial, she giggles as she pulls you into an embrace from the ground. She whispers something to you, but you can barely hear it against the sound of blood rushing past your drooping ears. White flashes in your vision as she takes your face in her hands, the slight pressure of her palms on your pulse, before her lips are once more on yours. Heaven. All at once, you smell her perfume, taste the fruity, carbonated residue on her lips — feel her desperation as you continue to stand there like a statue, until finally I take the initiative. She lets out a yelp as I pull her closer by her belt loops, pull her body, her warmth, closer to yours. Your eyes meet hers with a similar look of surprise.
You want to apologize, but you suddenly find it much harder to form words. Her hand slides under your shirt, finding its way to the small of your back just above your swaying tail. You bend so easily at the touch. She holds you close as you embarrass yourself with a staccato of bleats, as her fingers work to unlatch each button, until the garment lays in a misshapen lump on the floor. Until you are reduced to only your animal skin.
Do you find pleasure in this? Scarlet Bride, how often do you find yourself in such a position? How often does the cold air, let in by the window you do not remember opening, walk itself uninvited up your dark skin? Tell me of those tiny bumps, named after the gooses whose feathers once adorned the ground. Tell me too how you were plucked clean until you were featherless, something fit in their eyes to be called a 'man'.
Do you hear your heartbeat, Lover? Under the layers of your carapace, loving hands are weaving through, the duality of the want and won't of touching what still buds beneath. The push, the strain, the teetering back and forth towards the edge of the abyss. Do you not love how it teases?
Do you not love how she leaves you wanting as she pulls away, just out of reach for you to touch? Watch as she removes her armor, just enough to catch you staring at what is kept from your view, the outline of her curves kept just out of sight under her jacket. Drink in the figure in front of you — love how the moisture clings to the bare skin your mind has categorized away as "scandalous." Love how the fantasies in your mind eye threaten to loose you into nothingness. Relish the drop, your heart, as your movements grow more and more restless. What are you waiting for?
Of course.
Her command.
Drop to your knees, pet, and realize this is one of the few ways you make yourself useful to her. The innocence, the shame on your blushing face, scanning the floor are more intoxicating to your knight and I I than any amount of liquor. See how she looks at you, when only a single finger is enough to draw compliance as she lifts your face to face hers. She knows well what hides under the surface, still believing that We can be tamed. She sees Our hunger — to her, you must look like you are starving. Even now she is not strong enough, nor willing, to deny you your feast.
And so you speak, only when spoken to, only to the extent she is able to maintain some amount of composure, control, over you. You speak and you hear, in this humid apartment, how she responds to the rhetoric you espouse between her thighs. Feel how her body twists and bends to your grammar and diction, your metaphors and innuendos. Do you think she finds your words charming? Your loyalty and dedication make you look no larger when she looks down on you. You are simply a thing ruled by your desperation. She can see it in the way your hands grab at her and your breath becomes more and more ragged as we draw her closer and closer to completion and for a moment you feel elated knowing that there was something tangible your words could provider her —
And she signals you to stop.
I can only imagine the view from your knight, legs quivering, looking down at the creature before her. Half-clothed, panting, body beaded with sweat as its eyes continued to shimmer with want, burned by denial. Its chest rises and falls as it catches its breath, waiting for some instruction to action besides 'sit' or 'stay'. Our knight still certainly wants something of this discard, taking in, in your immodesty, everything you have to offer — There Must Be Something Of Value In This Shell Of Yours.
Her lips are on Ours again — how euphoric this feeling! Her hands glide over the sensitivity of your body, as she endeavors to make you sing as you made her. You do not even noticed she has lowered you onto your back, too distracted by the way her nails run against your ribs, Wishing She Would Break Them To Get To Your Still-Beating Heart. You instinctively shuffle your legs, your animal brain attempting to free yourself, but she is already on top of you. The fear trickles in, intoxicating you more than any amount of alcohol could.
How would she react if you told her of your desire? You desire so deeply to be hunted and caught, the simple thrill that you might actually be considered something deserving of so much effort. Maybe she already knows.
That must be why your protector looks down at you like prey, your waiting eyes just Begging To Be Gutted. Belly-up, vulnerable, you imagine what she is thinking, imagine your body Divvied Up By Dashed Marker, each cut labeled, your Butcher knowing how each region is to be treated: kissed, licked, bitten, or simply traced if the light touch of a finger would do. She becomes more and more emboldened as she works, finding so much joy in watching you wriggle and squirm beneath her; have you ever been something worthy of More Than Being Devoured?
You feel the fabric of your skirt lift from your legs.
For a moment, you hesitate, almost pulling back enough of your sober self for the memories to resurface, and the darkness to cloud your vision for when you are too weak to think about screaming. The threshold. Something inside you curls into a grin as she pauses – despite Our desire to tear you apart, Our knight steps cautiously. Despite being led on her leash, I always knew that We held the final word — she was only ever going to go as far as We were willing to let her. How naively she thinks there is still something inside you that is worth fighting for, pure despite everything That Had Been Done To Defile You. How much you want to believe that she is right.
Your body tenses, a bow's sting waiting to release its arrow into the mark's heart. You want to look away, but Something compels you to watch — see just how much Our knight needs Us. Look at the she focuses on the task at hand, hear how in tune you are, as Flesh Meets Flesh, and you are both finally conjoined.
How does it feel to watch your body move in a way that you are not sure is your own? How does it feel to relinquish all control, to watch yourself be the reason someone else loses all control? Our groom breaths Our name so beautifully. Imagine if We could mark her body likewise. Imagine Our bruises on her neck, the marks of Our teeth on her shoulders and breasts and thighs. How might it feel for you to get on top, and see just how far Our knight is truly willing to go?
She cannot help but lose herself in Us now. How soft she is under her armor and strength, so ready to be molded by determined hands. With each roll of her hips, the prize of your body becomes more alluring than any of the beautiful words you might have written for her. With each tense and exhale and moan, you are reminded of this, until it becomes simply too much for her to handle. At her climax, at Our Proudest Moment, are you really able to say that you were ever more than a mean for her ends?
You stare at the ceiling as she peels herself off of you, your breath finally catching, your Fear fading away. A deep shame washes over you, as you endeavor to cover your still-twitching and aching body. Despite the burn of your cheeks, you feel so, so cold.
You blink, and in the next room, you hear the turning of a faucet, followed by the rushing of water. Caring hands scoop you from the ground, and a kiss is planted on your forehead as you are princess carried to the bath. You want so desperately to cry. How could something so bestial deserve to be treated so delicately? Drip. You share no words as you are immersed in the water, your knight getting to work on making you something of a person again. You hear a giggle as she washes your hair, and your leg instinctually scratches the bottom of the tub as she scrubs between your antlers — the unconscious motion disgusts you.
Drip.
Why was she doing this?
Drip.
Why did you almost believe yourself deserving of this kind of care?
Drip.
What happens when you are no longer able to give her what she desires?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You flinch as she pulls you in close, body against body, simply sitting in the steamy water. She runs her hands through your flowing hair, carefully working through the knots. She pets you when she's done, and despite wishing that she would stop touching you, you welcome the feeling regardless. Your own discomfort aside, how could you ever claim you were anything less than loved?