Alternate Storyline to 'The Scarlet Letter'
By: Twist
A/n: This story contains slash, that is to say male/male sex. Not as severe as you may think, but if homosexual relationships disturb you please do not read this. Otherwise, it was something I wrote to have fun. I hope you do too.
Disclaimer: Are you being serious? I got nothing.
*
Dimmesdale stared at Chillingworth. Chillingworth stared back.
"No," Dimmesdale repeated, face carefully blank.
"You will let me into this house," Chillingworth said roughly. The gloomy night fog wound its way through the door and around Dimmesdale's thin frame.
"No," the minister repeated. He was scared, of course. He'd never stood up to anyone before.
"You will!" Chillingworth forcefully shoved the door open, sending Dimmesdale sliding backwards on the wooden floor. The taller man slammed the door behind him, chest heaving. The remainders of the fog danced around his ankles. "You have defied me," he growled.
"You have tortured me," Dimmesdale said, somewhat accusingly. He realized he was hunching over, and stood up to his full height. Chillingworth's eyes bore into his.
"That is a lie!" Chillingworth snarled.
"Then God strike me down," Dimmesdale sneered. There was something rousing itself in his head now. Something dark and slimy and delighted. Perhaps it could get out to play . . . He shook his head slightly and made an attempt to regain his senses.
Before he knew properly what was happening, Chillingworth had slammed his back against the wall. His feet were just brushing the ground. Cold, dead, gray eyes met dark brown orbs, melted chocolate.
"He shall, and you know it," Chillingworth snarled, spittle flying. "You have commited adultery. And you are a hypocrite!" He shook the thinner man, slamming him into the wall. "You preach the Lord's word and sing His praises and defy His laws! You are the scum on the shoes of those that walk this Earth!"
Dimmesdale's expression hadn't changed throughout the tirade. But now it was changing. Slowly. Eerily. A twisted smile wound its way across the minister's thin, sunken face. The eyes narrowed.The dark hair, always so neatly swept back, fell forward. Teeth glinted. Incisors shone.
"Oh, une histoire de l'Homme Noir. Comment il hante cette forêt et porte un livre avec lui - un livre grand et lourd avec les agrafes en fer . . ." the priest said slowly. Chillingworth, startled at the sudden change of demeanor in the other man, set the black-clothed man down upon the floor. Shadows crept across the floor as candles flickered. Fog danced.
Dimmesdale gave Chillingworth a glance that could not be described as anything but evil. He cupped his hands around a candle, and the flame caught on his flesh and danced merrily in his hands. The shadows twisted their way around the light and the floorboards creaked a merry cackle. Dimmesdale gave the flames a slightly appraising, slightly hauty look.
"Un livre grand et lourd avec les agrafes en fer," he said throughtfully. Chillingworth gazed upon the black magic before him in horror. He did not recognize the language.
The flames in Dimmesdale's hands froze for a moment. Then they began dancing again, jerking about, wrenching writhing, frantic in this dark man's grasp. Their sparks flew around in a frenzy, their smoke curling and interloping with the remaining fog. The flames surged suddenly, the light in the room grew enormous and somehow the shadows also expanded. And there, resting in the preist's hands where the flames had been, glowing with a slight light of red, was an enormous black book. It was bound with human skin and had clasps of iron and bone tracing around it in curving, hauntingly beautiful patterns.
"Comment cet Homme Noir offre tout le monde qui lui rencontre à son livre et un stylo en fer; et ils seront obligé à écrire leurs noms avec leur propre sang," the priest said slowly. He stepped forward and threw the book open to a page seemingly at random. Sparks crackled.
Chillingworth beheld the old pages. A pen of iron laid in the fold of the pages, as if it had been there the entire time. Trembling now, Chillingworth looked into the eyes of his victim.
"Your name please," Dimmesdale hissed. His voice sent alcoholic pleasures running down the other man's spine. Lust overwhelmed him and his mouth filled with the taste of flesh, of blood, of woman. All at once. His vision crackled, his cock swelled and his mouth grew dry. Blindly, he groped for the pen. Fog caressed his exposed wrist.
In his hand, he was aware of the pen's spikes. He was aware of the blood running from his palms. He was aware of the pen's gentle sucking sensation as it channeled his blood as ink. He signed his name, flowing yet shaky script, on the page. It burned with the light of the fire.
Suddenly, Dimmesdale slammed the book shut, just missing Chillingworth's hand. It vanished in flame, as magically and evilly as it had come. Dimmesdale's hands, now free, found their way to Chillingworth's collar, easing the buttons open and teasing the shirt open. He leaned in and Chillingworth could smell him - books and leather and wood and wax and smoke and candles and fire and fog and sulphur and the woods. He felt the other man's tongue behind his ear.
"Et alors il règle sa marque sur leurs seins," the other man whispered. Chillingworth trembled under his nimble, light hands, so thin, dainty, pale and so cold.
Dimmesdale had teased his shirt all the way open now. Slowly, hands working their way down as well, he made his way to Chillingworth's chest. Chillingworth could feel the priest's sickly sweet breath on his nipples and those hands . . . God those hands . . . lightly teasing the underside of his cock. He moaned.
"Sur leurs seins," Dimmesdale muttered into the gray hair on Chillingworth's chest. His hands were working faster now; Chillingworth's breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He wanted him to go faster, but he wanted it to last, but he wanted it to stop, but he wanted it never to end . . .
He screamed as he came. Fog poured its way into his throat. Muscles spasming, being supported only by the wiry strength of his patient, he howled for all he was worth. The shadows lept forward, the candles flared. A searing pain etched its way across his breast and his hands seized for the only thing he could grab, which was Dimmesdale.
"Il y a un tel Homme Noir?" Dimmesdale whispered, sliding back up Chillingworth's body. Chillingworth moaned as the man's thin, upturned nose brushed his. As Dimmesdale's black hair tickled his grey eyes. Fog wound around their ankles.
"You are not who you say," Chillingworth gasped in the moments following. Dimmesdale's nimble hands toyed with his nipples, his tongue tracing lazy patterns behind his ear. His hair brushing sensuously on the doctor's cheek.
"The Black Man, the Fallen Son, and Lucifer," Dimmesdale whispered into Chillingworth's ear, "are all less appealing names than Arthur Dimmesdale." He leaned back and look into grey eyes, glazed with pleasure but steeped in horror. The he leaned his again, thin arms wrapped around the man's deformed shoulders, and kissed him. A forked tongue traced its way across Chillingworth's lips, then between them. A sick taste, sweet like spoiled fruit, filled him. It was amazing and terrifying. It was beautiful and ugly. It was passionate and apathetic. And then it was over.
Dimmesdale leaned back again, hair in his eyes, an impish grin setlled on his face, arms still wrapped around the other man, who was gasping for breath. "You have gone to far, Chillingworth." He raised an eyebrow. "I shall see you in Hell." And then he leaned forward again. Chillingworth opened his mouth in anticipation.
"Mort," Dimmesdale whispered, sickly sweet breath mingling with the fog and diving down the other man's windpipe. Chillingworth shuddered. When the priest leaned back, Chillingworth's eyes were still glazed. Though this time, they were glazed with the frozen ice of the dead. Dimmesdale smirked and dropped him. The body hit the floor with a thud and the fog and shadows leaped upon it. Fire burned amongst them for a moment. And then they retreated, leaving only the buring letter A, etched deep into the floorboards.
"Cette lettre écarlate est la marque de l'Homme Noir sur vous, et qu'il brille comme une flamme rouge," he whispered in the dark. The letter glowed. Dimmesdale smirked and chuckled at some humor he found in the situation.
"A, my dear Chillingworth, is for so many things." He pouted a little. "It would be a shame to limit it to just one."
And then he laughed. Alone. High and cackling with the flames of candles dancing around him. He threw his head back and he screamed with laughter until the tears came from bown eyes, the color of dried blood. And he let them roll down his thin cheeks over pale skin. He let them fall and burn acid holes in the floor. He laughed and laughed until the flames lept from their wicks and engulfed the wood of the cottage. And he stood amongst the burning scene and laughed at it all even as the flames licked at his boots. He laughed as the clerical robes changed to a black suit and trenchcoat. He laughed as the black wings unfurled. And he laughed as the smell of rotting flesh soared into the air and was carried through the night on the fog.
And when the laughter had eased to a mad chuckle, Arthur Dimmesdale opened the door and Satan stepped out of the house.
--
Oh, a story about the Black Man. How he haunts this forest and carries a book with him - a big, heavy book with iron clasps. And how this Black Man offers his book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him and they are to write their names with their own blood. And then he sets his mark on their bosoms.
This Scarlet Letter is the Black Man's mark on thee, and it glows like a red flame.
END
Reviews, por favor? (Yeah, I'm a Spanish student. Feel free to correct my French.)
By: Twist
A/n: This story contains slash, that is to say male/male sex. Not as severe as you may think, but if homosexual relationships disturb you please do not read this. Otherwise, it was something I wrote to have fun. I hope you do too.
Disclaimer: Are you being serious? I got nothing.
*
Dimmesdale stared at Chillingworth. Chillingworth stared back.
"No," Dimmesdale repeated, face carefully blank.
"You will let me into this house," Chillingworth said roughly. The gloomy night fog wound its way through the door and around Dimmesdale's thin frame.
"No," the minister repeated. He was scared, of course. He'd never stood up to anyone before.
"You will!" Chillingworth forcefully shoved the door open, sending Dimmesdale sliding backwards on the wooden floor. The taller man slammed the door behind him, chest heaving. The remainders of the fog danced around his ankles. "You have defied me," he growled.
"You have tortured me," Dimmesdale said, somewhat accusingly. He realized he was hunching over, and stood up to his full height. Chillingworth's eyes bore into his.
"That is a lie!" Chillingworth snarled.
"Then God strike me down," Dimmesdale sneered. There was something rousing itself in his head now. Something dark and slimy and delighted. Perhaps it could get out to play . . . He shook his head slightly and made an attempt to regain his senses.
Before he knew properly what was happening, Chillingworth had slammed his back against the wall. His feet were just brushing the ground. Cold, dead, gray eyes met dark brown orbs, melted chocolate.
"He shall, and you know it," Chillingworth snarled, spittle flying. "You have commited adultery. And you are a hypocrite!" He shook the thinner man, slamming him into the wall. "You preach the Lord's word and sing His praises and defy His laws! You are the scum on the shoes of those that walk this Earth!"
Dimmesdale's expression hadn't changed throughout the tirade. But now it was changing. Slowly. Eerily. A twisted smile wound its way across the minister's thin, sunken face. The eyes narrowed.The dark hair, always so neatly swept back, fell forward. Teeth glinted. Incisors shone.
"Oh, une histoire de l'Homme Noir. Comment il hante cette forêt et porte un livre avec lui - un livre grand et lourd avec les agrafes en fer . . ." the priest said slowly. Chillingworth, startled at the sudden change of demeanor in the other man, set the black-clothed man down upon the floor. Shadows crept across the floor as candles flickered. Fog danced.
Dimmesdale gave Chillingworth a glance that could not be described as anything but evil. He cupped his hands around a candle, and the flame caught on his flesh and danced merrily in his hands. The shadows twisted their way around the light and the floorboards creaked a merry cackle. Dimmesdale gave the flames a slightly appraising, slightly hauty look.
"Un livre grand et lourd avec les agrafes en fer," he said throughtfully. Chillingworth gazed upon the black magic before him in horror. He did not recognize the language.
The flames in Dimmesdale's hands froze for a moment. Then they began dancing again, jerking about, wrenching writhing, frantic in this dark man's grasp. Their sparks flew around in a frenzy, their smoke curling and interloping with the remaining fog. The flames surged suddenly, the light in the room grew enormous and somehow the shadows also expanded. And there, resting in the preist's hands where the flames had been, glowing with a slight light of red, was an enormous black book. It was bound with human skin and had clasps of iron and bone tracing around it in curving, hauntingly beautiful patterns.
"Comment cet Homme Noir offre tout le monde qui lui rencontre à son livre et un stylo en fer; et ils seront obligé à écrire leurs noms avec leur propre sang," the priest said slowly. He stepped forward and threw the book open to a page seemingly at random. Sparks crackled.
Chillingworth beheld the old pages. A pen of iron laid in the fold of the pages, as if it had been there the entire time. Trembling now, Chillingworth looked into the eyes of his victim.
"Your name please," Dimmesdale hissed. His voice sent alcoholic pleasures running down the other man's spine. Lust overwhelmed him and his mouth filled with the taste of flesh, of blood, of woman. All at once. His vision crackled, his cock swelled and his mouth grew dry. Blindly, he groped for the pen. Fog caressed his exposed wrist.
In his hand, he was aware of the pen's spikes. He was aware of the blood running from his palms. He was aware of the pen's gentle sucking sensation as it channeled his blood as ink. He signed his name, flowing yet shaky script, on the page. It burned with the light of the fire.
Suddenly, Dimmesdale slammed the book shut, just missing Chillingworth's hand. It vanished in flame, as magically and evilly as it had come. Dimmesdale's hands, now free, found their way to Chillingworth's collar, easing the buttons open and teasing the shirt open. He leaned in and Chillingworth could smell him - books and leather and wood and wax and smoke and candles and fire and fog and sulphur and the woods. He felt the other man's tongue behind his ear.
"Et alors il règle sa marque sur leurs seins," the other man whispered. Chillingworth trembled under his nimble, light hands, so thin, dainty, pale and so cold.
Dimmesdale had teased his shirt all the way open now. Slowly, hands working their way down as well, he made his way to Chillingworth's chest. Chillingworth could feel the priest's sickly sweet breath on his nipples and those hands . . . God those hands . . . lightly teasing the underside of his cock. He moaned.
"Sur leurs seins," Dimmesdale muttered into the gray hair on Chillingworth's chest. His hands were working faster now; Chillingworth's breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He wanted him to go faster, but he wanted it to last, but he wanted it to stop, but he wanted it never to end . . .
He screamed as he came. Fog poured its way into his throat. Muscles spasming, being supported only by the wiry strength of his patient, he howled for all he was worth. The shadows lept forward, the candles flared. A searing pain etched its way across his breast and his hands seized for the only thing he could grab, which was Dimmesdale.
"Il y a un tel Homme Noir?" Dimmesdale whispered, sliding back up Chillingworth's body. Chillingworth moaned as the man's thin, upturned nose brushed his. As Dimmesdale's black hair tickled his grey eyes. Fog wound around their ankles.
"You are not who you say," Chillingworth gasped in the moments following. Dimmesdale's nimble hands toyed with his nipples, his tongue tracing lazy patterns behind his ear. His hair brushing sensuously on the doctor's cheek.
"The Black Man, the Fallen Son, and Lucifer," Dimmesdale whispered into Chillingworth's ear, "are all less appealing names than Arthur Dimmesdale." He leaned back and look into grey eyes, glazed with pleasure but steeped in horror. The he leaned his again, thin arms wrapped around the man's deformed shoulders, and kissed him. A forked tongue traced its way across Chillingworth's lips, then between them. A sick taste, sweet like spoiled fruit, filled him. It was amazing and terrifying. It was beautiful and ugly. It was passionate and apathetic. And then it was over.
Dimmesdale leaned back again, hair in his eyes, an impish grin setlled on his face, arms still wrapped around the other man, who was gasping for breath. "You have gone to far, Chillingworth." He raised an eyebrow. "I shall see you in Hell." And then he leaned forward again. Chillingworth opened his mouth in anticipation.
"Mort," Dimmesdale whispered, sickly sweet breath mingling with the fog and diving down the other man's windpipe. Chillingworth shuddered. When the priest leaned back, Chillingworth's eyes were still glazed. Though this time, they were glazed with the frozen ice of the dead. Dimmesdale smirked and dropped him. The body hit the floor with a thud and the fog and shadows leaped upon it. Fire burned amongst them for a moment. And then they retreated, leaving only the buring letter A, etched deep into the floorboards.
"Cette lettre écarlate est la marque de l'Homme Noir sur vous, et qu'il brille comme une flamme rouge," he whispered in the dark. The letter glowed. Dimmesdale smirked and chuckled at some humor he found in the situation.
"A, my dear Chillingworth, is for so many things." He pouted a little. "It would be a shame to limit it to just one."
And then he laughed. Alone. High and cackling with the flames of candles dancing around him. He threw his head back and he screamed with laughter until the tears came from bown eyes, the color of dried blood. And he let them roll down his thin cheeks over pale skin. He let them fall and burn acid holes in the floor. He laughed and laughed until the flames lept from their wicks and engulfed the wood of the cottage. And he stood amongst the burning scene and laughed at it all even as the flames licked at his boots. He laughed as the clerical robes changed to a black suit and trenchcoat. He laughed as the black wings unfurled. And he laughed as the smell of rotting flesh soared into the air and was carried through the night on the fog.
And when the laughter had eased to a mad chuckle, Arthur Dimmesdale opened the door and Satan stepped out of the house.
--
Oh, a story about the Black Man. How he haunts this forest and carries a book with him - a big, heavy book with iron clasps. And how this Black Man offers his book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him and they are to write their names with their own blood. And then he sets his mark on their bosoms.
This Scarlet Letter is the Black Man's mark on thee, and it glows like a red flame.
END
Reviews, por favor? (Yeah, I'm a Spanish student. Feel free to correct my French.)