Sorcerer Hunters Fan Fiction ❯ By the Night: Control's Submission ❯ By the Night: Control's Submission ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Sorcerer Hunters, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

Warning: This story contains the themes of torture, sex, and male/male relationships. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.

Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.

So, anyway, please review and no flames.

Important: This is a second person narrative. The 'you' is Carrot. This is the sequel to "By the Day…"

By the Night: Control's Submission

Upon wings of velvet darkness the night spreads across the sky. You watch indigo fade to sparkling black. Apprehension and excitement churn in your stomach. You day lover fades from your mind's eye. After all he only possesses while the sun smiles down upon you. He is too gentle, in his own way, for the true power of night.

You know how he wants to be your night lover, as well. He wants to be that secret that is yours in darkness, that rules you in shadows. He wants to be the one with you beneath the veiled eyes of the moon. But he can't.

There is another.

This is not betrayal. This is not being unfaithful. You are trustworthy. You are faithful. You belong to your day lover while the sun hangs above the sky. You are owned by your night lover as soon as darkness bleeds across the heavens. You understand this. You don't complain.

He is waiting for you. You can feel him thrum across every nerve cluster. Your skin itches with the knowledge of his presence. He commands your appearance. But you are with your companions, your day lover. Your room is overhead and to the left. The room has become a tangible, palpable entity pressing down upon you. You shudder.

He's there. You need him so bad.

He isn't love. You know this. He cannot love. He can only take and take and take and take. Oh, but how he does his taking! You shudder. You quake. Delicious, painful anticipation sings beneath the thin impediment of your flesh.

He is your addiction.

Your day lover watches you. He suspects. He is intelligent, but that doesn't matter. At night he can no longer claim you. Another, crueler lover rules your mind. He touches you and you move out of reach. It is not the time for that.

You claim fatigue/exhaustion/tiredness and leave your companions. Your day lover's questioning gaze lingers upon you. The darkness presses cold fingers into your mind. The stairway looks threatening. The wavering torches improve nothing. You pause and let your imagination expand. It swells up and out to turn every shadow into a dangerous threat. Fear rolls through you like an old friend, a familiar nemesis.

One foot after another. You can do this. Left, right, left, right. The walls moan softly with anticipation. The stairs murmur your passage. In your mind a thousand fleshed dolls perform for hungry, invisible eyes. You are performing too.

You are an actor in a drama spiraling down to tragedy. You love the feeling of the inevitable. There is comfort when all paths but one are blocked. Fate and destiny are the fragrant balm for the weary. You are riddled with holes. Your pour your soul out with every passing day.

Is that why you don't complain?

Are you hollow yet?

Doors pass you by. They laugh. Are they laughing at you? If only the people crawling behind them knew about you. They wouldn't laugh then, would they? You reach your door. Darkness laps against you like a thousand tongues. You press against the smooth wood. You run your callused fingers against the grain. The door breathes with his presence. It's as if he mirrors you on the other side of the door. He takes your warmth for his own. But you know he is not standing with you. You could never stand with him. He lords over you.

The door opens. You find your hand on the cool knob. The cold brass warms beneath your sweating palm. Your night lover watches with cold amusement. You are such a funny boy.

The door closes. You are sealed inside-with him. This is your world now. You've never asked how he comes into your room. He's always there at every inn. Even when you only have stars for a ceiling, he watches you. Sometimes you wonder if he's a dream. The bruises say that, no, he's quite real. Or maybe you're a sadomasochist in your sleep.

You need the pain. Gods…Yes.

Your night lover reclines upon the bed. You are blind in the darkness, but you know his position instinctively. If you saw him in the light, his eyes of deepest purple would consume you. He already consumes you. He enflames you. His existence grants you feeling. You are numb without him. Only he makes you feel. Pleasure and pain are the same with him. He gives either depending on his mood. You ask for nothing more, nothing less.

You approach the bed with cautious steps. Blood pounds through your fragile veins.

One little cut will soak the world crimson.

He makes no move. He is a statue of shadows. He is your glorious hell. You prostrate yourself before him. He knows of everything you do, you've done. He laughs silently. He fills your lungs and you suffocate on him.

More. More. Ah…

A warm hand dances across our cheek. Yessss. His touch burns you, brands you. He owns you now. He owns your tender body and its easily torn flesh. He can-and will-mark you. He'll possess you. He'll leave you nothing.

Beg him!

You crawl onto the bed. You crawl with him. He doesn't crawl. Only slaves crawl. Only pets crawl.

Good boy.

Pain lances through you. You lie on your back. His hands press into your windpipe. He loves you when you're dying. It's not love. It's obsession. He's obsessed with you. You can't breath. You can't breath! You can't cry for help. You wouldn't even if you could. He could kill you and no one would know. No one would hear.

You can imagine your companions in the morning. Your body will be stretched out. Your eyes will stare blankly, no longer capable at seeing. And you will be smiling.

Like that do you?

Yes. Yes. Oh gods yes!

You stare at him. You can't see anything, but you still stare. You can feel his cruel smile. You shudder exquisitely. Lights flash across your vision. Everything begins to spin. This is death. This is the end. And you smile around your agony.

This is truth.

And you're harder than ever.

If the others could see you know, they'd know you've been fooling them. You haven't given them true smiles for years. They receive ghosts. You package your sorrow in bright ribbons.

Your night lover takes your truth. He bruises you with such lovely cruelty. He knows you need this. He knows you'll take this without question.

His fingers leave your throat. They leave purpling marks. They feather down. He eats your lips. He rapes your mouth with his. Can one rape the willing? Yes…

You moan throatily. His tongue pierces you. Wet and hungry it stalks the moist cavity of your eager mouth. He pushes you down when you try to arch up. You only get as much as he cares to give. Remember that. You will.

Your lungs pull in air. It tastes delicious. Only with him does everything possess a new purity. He cleanses your young body with his possession. Your night lover is your pyre.

Burning you. Burning you.

So hot!

He releases your desperate mouth. You whimper. Warm hands slide up your quivering stomach. Your tank top rides up to expose your flesh to the chilled night air and your night lover's voracious gaze. With unnerving tenderness he pulls it off. You watch it sail into shadows with dazed eyes. You don't want him to be gentle.

He isn't.

Watching your expressive face, he rolls your pebbled nipples between the pads of his fingers. You moan. He laughs. The rich tones penetrate you. They slice you into uneven parts. He fills the emptiness with pain.

Forbidden to move, you wait for his next touch. Cool air moves across your skin. You hear him shift. What would the others say? How will you play off your necklace of purple marks, his lovely collar? They're so inquisitive. Did you accidentally fall into someone's stranglehold?

You gasp. Mustn't move. You shriek. No one will hear. You sense him smirking at you. Slowly he releases the flesh. You can feel the warm trickle of blood. You can feel your frenetic, panicked heartbeat. He bit you. He's taking pieces of you.

Taking and taking and taking.

Slowly he works his way down. You scream with every savage bite. You writhe even as he shoves you down. Coronas of fire run down your chest and the plane of your stomach. A miniature heartbeat pulses in every wound. With every exhalation you shriek. With every inhalation you burn. Your voice dies on one last ragged outpouring of agony.

You stare at him, his darkness, like a frightened rabbit. Strangled noises issue from your throbbing throat. You can't move around the pain lancing into your brain.

You want more.

You remember, dimly, a time when you resisted. There was once a time when you said no, when you fought. But your night lover has shown you that to submit is sublime. He is the freedom you need. Under his command you are liberated from all responsibility. He owns you, possesses you. His will is all.

If only you could breathe…

The pain surges into you.

Gods.

You cry. Scalding tears wash your dark eyes. Crying is a form of freedom, too. Does he know that the nothing he gives you, the pain he forces upon you, is your liberty? One little death more is all you crave. You need your night lover. You need him more than the one who takes you in the sun.

Your day lover is your chain, your cage. He drowns you.

You need to be burned; to be eaten alive, screaming.

Your night lover teases the waistband of your pants. He's in a decidedly playful mood tonight. He has left his bloody marks upon your body. They tell everyone of your subjugation. You hope they never fade. You fear they won't. You know your companions will ask more questions. How did you get them? Did you fall on someone's teeth?

You fell.

Hard.

With unnatural skill he yanks your belt out. His hunger pours across your exposed skin. You would moan around your ragged throat. What is he going to do? His hands slide down legs, pressing the rough cloth against your sensitized skin. He pulls your boots and socks off. They fall to the side of the bed.

He asks you what you want. You can't speak. Your whimper; plead with less-than-human noises. You are a carnal animal, his pet.

His cold laugh flares across your skin. The belt lands across your thighs. A hitched gasp escapes your dry lips. The imprints on your chest are a shadowed memory of agony compared to the heated sting of the lash. It lands again and again. Each stroke becomes a line of fiery pain. You whisper screams.

He stops. You can feel his gaze rove across your prone body. He leans forward, pressing you into the bed, and licks the salty tears dripping from your dazed and rolling eyes. He calls you beautiful. You've never been called that before.

Beauty in pain.

He makes music from your anguish. He plays you and you sing with trembling voice and spread body.

Please. Please. Please.

Pants gone, you're open before him. You feel shame. He likes that. You feel pain. He likes that. You feel so goddamn ready for anything he wants. He loves that.

Nails bite into the skin of your inner thighs. You sigh in supplication.

Please.

Punishing lips hover over your own. His presence swamps you. You feel so small. You feel like a young child. And you're trapped inside the room with the monster in the closet.

Feel safe?

You want the world to see you like this. This is you like they'll never see you. Only your night lover sees the true you. He sees the panting, needy child trapped in a body of someone older. All you've ever wanted was someone to submit to. So deliciously yielding, you wait with hitched breath. His warm breath fans your flushed face. It dries the tears to sticky trails running down your cheeks.

Each thread, each fiber of the cotton sheets lacerates your overly stimulated flesh. With sight denied you must rely on your other, less faulty sense. Night air hangs thick with the scent of fear, pain and blood, your blood. Every rustle of cloth pierces your ears. You strain to catch his every movement. He seems to be laughing at you.

Sharp nails scratch down your chest. They tear the circular wounds open again. You hiss. He raises your hips. He pauses. You sob in frustration, in agony.

Please! Please! Please!

He thrusts in. Your mouth opens. Air rushes out. The abused muscles of your throat strain to emit the shriek. They fail. You flop down, arch up and roll your eyes back.

So much pain.

More. Please. More.

His hands grip your throat. You can feel the feathered edges of asphyxiation closing about your mind. He rides you powerfully, masterfully. Your body jerks. He slams into you. He kills you. Your wounds weep crimson tears. The lash-marks pulse with individual fires. So much pain, your mind can't handle it.

Voicelessly you scream. You shatter. Your conscious rushes towards the night. Stars glitter in your head. The agony spirals up with you. A thousand shards of glass rend your tender flesh. You writhe and shake and beg for more.

More. More. More!

You can feel him moving in your limp body as your mind drifts in amniotic darkness. This is your death. This is the transcendent moment you crave. He holds you in limbo between life an death. Whoever told you that the only thing you had power over was your own life, lied to you. No one has power over his own life. That power always belongs to another. This power resides in him.

Your night lover reaches completion in your yielding body. The hands release your throat. They slide down your chest, smearing your blood. Your body jerks automatically with his withdrawal. You look dead. You have died.

You are dreaming of a crimson dawn.

Had you been awake you would have heard his cold laugh. Had you been awake you would have felt him lick each wound upon your chest. He revels in the salty taste of your coagulating blood.

But you sleep and dream and cry softly.

You're so beautiful when you're broken.

Tomorrow morning your day lover will open the door and find you sprawled this way, naked and thoroughly ravished. He will see your torn flesh, the necklace of lovely bruises, and the angry crisscross of welts upon your thighs. He will be horrified. But he will never pry the secret from your softly smiling lips.

In the light of the day you will smile, but it will never be true. The day is your prison. The night is your escape.

Your night lover is your personal God.

In the dark the twisted becomes divine.

* * *

From Sarryn:

I'm a little disappointed with how this part came out. It's hard to write in present tense, second person. To compound matters this takes places in the absence of light so I couldn't use visual descriptions (at least I tried not to use them). Perhaps that's why I feel despondent. Visual descriptions help the reader to visualize what is going on. Without them you are caught in limbo. Of course, part of my intention was to give a sense of vertigo, but it hasn't worked out quite the way I'd planned. Ah the wells, such is life.

The worst is that it is just too long. I was aiming for five pages. Five little pages, and what I came up with was more like eight. I feel that, towards the end, it becomes a bit trite, tedious and overly melodramatic. I have no idea how to remedy this. Suggestions would be very welcome.

The observant reader will have immediately noticed that Carrot didn't achieve orgasm. Why not? It's a metaphor, and I'm not telling you what it is a metaphor for. There must be some mysteries left in life, after all.

The pairing in this is Carrot, 'you', and Sacher (Zaha) Torte, 'night lover', with implied incest between the Carrot and Marron, 'day lover'. And again the narrator is an incorporeal, omniscient voyeur, which is to say the narrator doesn't really exist at all. Confusing, ne?

Please REVIEW if you would be so kind.

Much Love,

Sarryn

PS. Teno Hikari, this one's for you! You must update your stories posthaste.