Filled as Frollo/Esmerelda [1/2]afterandalasiaJanuary 4 2011, 17:42:10 UTC
Oh god, I seem to have a real thing for this pairing right now. Anyway, this got dark. Hope that it was something like what you were looking for.
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"Blasphemer."
The whip strikes her bare skin, leaving a raw, pink line behind. She whimpers, head bowed, sweat glistening on her shoulders in the candlelight, and the sight of it only makes him harder beneath his robes.
"Heretic."
He keeps his voice low, though not soft; fierce and metallic as he lays her names before her. Her hands tighten to fists where he has bound them with his stole, gold embroidery glinting against her brown skin. Again he raises the whip, again lowers it, and though she flinches sharply and grunts in pain she does not scream through the maniple around her mouth and fight against the ties in the way that she did before. Perhaps now the evil is being driven from her, finally, and that is why she does not fight him.
"Whore."
Another strike, then another. Red lines criss-cross her back, some of them beading with blood like some mocking Eucharist, marring what had been clear, flawless skin. Only right that a devil should wear her sin on her flesh. She pants and gasps at each blow, through the gag he put on to stop her screams from echoing in the great cathedral, sweat sticking her hair to her face around those green eyes, those ripe lips, the beautiful mask that hid such a sinful mind.
"Gypsy."
Finally his arm fulls still, and he is breathing hard as well, and tells himself that it is with the exertion of wielding the whip. He drops it to the stone floor, where it clatters, and walks slowly round to where he can see the gypsy's face. Her eyes are half-closed at first, but when she realises he is there her head rises, her eyes glitter dangerously, and she pulls against the bonds that keep her arms wide outstretched, exposing her utterly to him in her nakedness.
He runs his hand across her jaw, even as she tries to pull her face away, his nails leaving marks on her neck and on the soft skin beneath her ear. Leaning in closer, smelling her sweetness beneath the salt of her sweat, and when she whips her head to throw him aside he strikes her, backhanded, across her face so that she slumps slightly in her restraints again.
His hand steals beneath his alb as he looks at her, her ripe body, brown and rounded with dark nipples on high breasts and rounded hips, firm thighs, dark curls between them. Between the buttons of his cassock, down against his skin, sliding down to brush against the mortal focus of his own desire, the curse that she had laid upon him. Curling his fingers around himself, he stands for a moment longer there, barely even moving his hand, then a bolt of anger flashes through him again and he pulls his hand away, clenches it into a fist and looks upon it as though it has betrayed him.
-----
"Blasphemer."
The whip strikes her bare skin, leaving a raw, pink line behind. She whimpers, head bowed, sweat glistening on her shoulders in the candlelight, and the sight of it only makes him harder beneath his robes.
"Heretic."
He keeps his voice low, though not soft; fierce and metallic as he lays her names before her. Her hands tighten to fists where he has bound them with his stole, gold embroidery glinting against her brown skin. Again he raises the whip, again lowers it, and though she flinches sharply and grunts in pain she does not scream through the maniple around her mouth and fight against the ties in the way that she did before. Perhaps now the evil is being driven from her, finally, and that is why she does not fight him.
"Whore."
Another strike, then another. Red lines criss-cross her back, some of them beading with blood like some mocking Eucharist, marring what had been clear, flawless skin. Only right that a devil should wear her sin on her flesh. She pants and gasps at each blow, through the gag he put on to stop her screams from echoing in the great cathedral, sweat sticking her hair to her face around those green eyes, those ripe lips, the beautiful mask that hid such a sinful mind.
"Gypsy."
Finally his arm fulls still, and he is breathing hard as well, and tells himself that it is with the exertion of wielding the whip. He drops it to the stone floor, where it clatters, and walks slowly round to where he can see the gypsy's face. Her eyes are half-closed at first, but when she realises he is there her head rises, her eyes glitter dangerously, and she pulls against the bonds that keep her arms wide outstretched, exposing her utterly to him in her nakedness.
He runs his hand across her jaw, even as she tries to pull her face away, his nails leaving marks on her neck and on the soft skin beneath her ear. Leaning in closer, smelling her sweetness beneath the salt of her sweat, and when she whips her head to throw him aside he strikes her, backhanded, across her face so that she slumps slightly in her restraints again.
His hand steals beneath his alb as he looks at her, her ripe body, brown and rounded with dark nipples on high breasts and rounded hips, firm thighs, dark curls between them. Between the buttons of his cassock, down against his skin, sliding down to brush against the mortal focus of his own desire, the curse that she had laid upon him. Curling his fingers around himself, he stands for a moment longer there, barely even moving his hand, then a bolt of anger flashes through him again and he pulls his hand away, clenches it into a fist and looks upon it as though it has betrayed him.
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